


Nine to Survival Job

by mandywritesfiction



Category: Jurassic World (2015)
Genre: All the prompts that you jerks have sent to me that I cry over, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Miscarriage, Sexual Content, So yeah there's that, This might change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-29 13:33:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6377221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandywritesfiction/pseuds/mandywritesfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of prompts and other short drabbles dedicated to the Claire Dearing and Owen Grady, also known as Clawen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. On Your Mark (Say You Won't Go)

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I'm not quite sure why I'm just putting these together in a place where I'll be able to go back and read over them instead of searching on Tumblr for a specific one, but here it is... just a few months overdue. Any ways, I'll forever be accepting prompts on my Tumblr account because I've sold my soul to the Devil and am too far in to ever let go of this beautiful pairing.

Sunday was  _supposed_  to be the day of rest, but in Claire’s book there stood no such definition. When you were operations manager for not only a theme park but a company on the brink of  _breaking_  the industry, Sundays were not a proverbial gift from the heavens. 

While her boyfriend was at home, most likely lounging around and clad only in his boxers watching TV in  _their_ bed, Claire was stuck behind her desk crunching the numbers on their latest park attendance as if it couldn’t wait until Monday.  _“To be the best, we have to employ the best, Claire,”_ she mocked Simon Masrani with a faux-accent before dropping the pen she held in exchange for her phone. With quick motions, she punched his number into her phone and held it to her ear, listening to it ring before his voice finally flooded onto her end, melting her instantly. 

“I was just thinking about you,” Owen breathed in a thick, heavy voice, one that clued Claire into what he had been up to all morning -- and no, it wasn’t jacking off. 

“Let me guess,” she played coy, rolling her eyes as she rested her head back against the chair, “you aren’t even out of bed, and  _if_  you did happen to get up, it was only for a cup of coffee.” 

Owen’s laughter confirmed her theory and Claire merely sighed. “At the very least you could give me the benefit of the doubt, and for your information, I have gotten out of bed. For coffee  _and_  a bagel.” 

 _A_   _bagel_? That’s what was wrong with the world; they could’ve spent the morning together, maybe taken their daughter for breakfast at their favorite eatery on the restaurant,  _The Dirty Dish._  Instead, she would forever be locked in her office without any source of entertainment, and not even be delighted with the mid-day kiss from her gorgeous boyfriend. 

“What is it?” He questioned, his tone softening. Of course, Owen wasn’t oblivious to the obvious; he knew she wanted to be home, just as much as he wanted her there, but it was her  _job,_  one that she enjoyed even on the days she claimed otherwise. If he could do something to make the day brighter, he would in a heartbeat, but that meant his girlfriend  _allowing_  him to. 

The sigh in her tone was distinguishable, yet Claire didn’t make a move to complain more; it wasn't worth ruining his day. Had he remembered, though? “It’s nothing, but if I don’t work then I’ll never make it home tonight. I’ll see you later, love you.”

Before he was given the chance to say anything else, the line disconnected, leaving him with the realization that  _something_  needed to be done to cheer her up. 

* * *

 

Who knew working on a Sunday would be such a drag? Claire didn’t make habit of it  _every_  weekend, but the reports weren’t going to write themselves, and if it wasn’t on Simon’s desk come Monday morning... well, he’d already threatened to have an  _assistant_  ready for her, and after what happened to Zara, Claire couldn’t fathom the idea of replacing the woman. 

Around four in the afternoon, just as she had promised Owen, Claire gathered her laptop and the various items she would need to finish the report and left her office without looking back. The drive to their house -- which still felt all too large for only the three of them -- took longer than expected with the light afternoon drizzle, but once she pulled up and smelled the roast in the oven as she stepped over the threshold, it all became worth it. 

That was until she couldn’t find her boyfriend. Granted, she’d barely glanced past the living room before she was aching to take her heels off, but it was all in due time. 

“Owen, I know you’re here, there’s a roast in the oven for fuck’s sake!” Standing in middle of the carpeted flooring, mindlessly scooting around in a small circle to massage her feet, she couldn’t ignore the nagging in the back of her mind that led her to the kitchen. 

The  _empty_  kitchen. 

Just as soon as she had wandered in she found the single plastic egg sitting on the counter, next to the stove, and without any indication that she needed to reach for it, Claire plucked it from the countertop and snapped it open, only to see a small, yellow pastel piece of paper tucked inside. 

Gingerly with a soft smile appearing on her features, Claire unfolded the tiny piece and began to read. 

* * *

 

_Claire,_

_I know how stressed you’ve been at work over the past week, and I figured that since tonight was going to be dedicated to us, I’d put together a fun game for you to play. Figure out the clues to find the hiding place of the last egg, and when you’ve found me, you’ll have your surprise._

_Clue #1: The place we first said ‘I love you’._

* * *

 

It hardly took her much time to figure out the hiding spot of the first clue as the memory was so fresh in her mind, albeit being nearly two years before.

_“Claire?”_

_He sounded the slightest bit panicked and it may have been cruel, but Claire held her breath for a split second before she responded. “Out here, on the deck.”_

_She was standing on the wooden slats with both hands perched along the oak railing, clenching and unclenching her hands as she felt the wood withstanding the weight beneath her grip. She heard his footsteps behind her until he stopped only a foot or so away. Was he going to stay so far behind that she couldn’t reach out and touch him?_

_“Claire, I’m sorry...” Owen breathed and reached out to gently wrap his fingers around her arm to test the waters, waiting to feel the slightest inclination that she didn’t want him there.  
_

_Just as the words slipped into the space between them Claire turned around with a narrowing gaze, “are you fucking kidding me? I’m the one who offended you and_ you’re _apologizing?” If the words hadn’t been so harsh she would’ve laughed, but the way he pulled her closer made it known he wasn’t upset. “You drive me absolutely crazy, Owen, you know that, right?”_

_Oh, he knew. Owen nodded faithfully and stepped to close the tiniest bit of space between them, pressing his lips to her forehead. To say he never wanted to lose her was an understatement and, if he knew she wouldn't take it the wrong way, he wanted to freeze time so he could see her when she was most upset and compare it to when she was blissfully happy._

_“You didn’t insult me, for the record.” Sure, she’d basically declined any future marriage proposals and then had stormed off, but it didn’t mean he didn’t want to continue their relationship together. Not by a landslide. He reached up to cup her chin in the palm of his large hand, smoothing the other to the small of her back to pull her body flush against his._ _Before she could protest, his lips were parting hers and breathing in the words he wanted to say but dare pull away from her in fear of what Claire’s wrath could do._

_She inhaled his apology and swallowed it with promises of speaking of the topic again. The lack of oxygen to her brain made the palms of her hands tingle and her legs grow weak until he pulled back, allowing her fresh air, and rested his forehead against hers._

_“You, Claire Elizabeth Dearing, are going to be the bane of my existence, and will forever be the thorn in my side, but I’d rather take it than not have you. I love_ you.” 

* * *

 

There, perched on the wooden rail, was the second egg. Glittery with a pastel background, Claire knew exactly who had picked out the egg, and it wasn’t Owen. Following suit just as she had the first, Claire cracked the egg and plucked the note from inside. 

* * *

 

_I love you._

_I felt it was appropriate to say that given where this clue is hidden. Can you believe it has been two years since we shared our love for the first time? Do you remember what it was like to have sex that night? I never believed anyone when they claimed that ‘having sex’ and ‘making love’ were two different things, but that night I was a changed man._

_Don’t laugh._

_On to clue #2. Remember, I love you._

_Clue #2: A sweet serenade where music is played._

* * *

 

Claire carried on to the room in their house where, when they first moved in, Owen was allowed to pick the rooms’ decor; an entire room dedicated to the sweet serenity of music. There wasn’t a single inch of wall that wasn’t covered with vinyl covers, everything ranging from Elvis and Johnny Cash to Taylor Swift (much to Owen’s dismay). 

She peered around the room with a soft smile peeking through her features. So many nights had they dragged pillows and blankets from their room to make a bed on the floor, put in a record, and laid in the other’s embrace. It was where she comforted him when his father died, and where Owen held Claire for hours after she learned the devastating news of their  _first_  miscarriage, a daughter they had planned to name Juliett. 

Sitting a top the record player was a white egg with a ‘C’ drawn on the front. 

* * *

 

_There aren’t many times I admit this, but with you I have no bones. I am a changed man because of you, not_ by _you. I wanted to change to better myself and our relationship, and this home we’ve created is proof of it._

_In honor of being together for three years, I’ll admit the hunt ends when you find the next egg. Don’t forget to bring the clues so I can hand over your prize._

_Clue #3: Our restless hearts will never sleep alone again._

* * *

 

There was no doubt in her mind that the next stop would take her to Owen and she would be able to  _properly_  thank him. Not only for the scavenger hunt that brought out her inner (competitive) child, but it was the stress reliever that she had been yearning for. 

Clutching the three eggs complete with the clues inside, Claire walked steadily towards their bedroom and nudged the door open with her foot and beamed at the sight before her. Laying there, on the bed, was her boyfriend and father of their daughter, dressed in bunny ears and boxers.

Boxers that, unfortunately, had tiny rabbits printed on the material.  

“Please, for the love of all things good, tell me that our daughter is not around here and that she hasn’t seen you in  _that_  one time today?” Unable to hold in her laughter, Claire padded across the room before she pounced on the bed, throwing the eggs beside them as Owen wrapped both arms around her waist. 

“Our daughter, for your information, is at an egg hunt with Lowery and Vivian. Although, I may have accidentally given them permission to keep her for a tad bit longer than expected.” Owen shrugged and looked up to meet her gaze, but Claire wasn’t having a bit of his sappiness. She knew what he was up to. “Can you blame me for wanting you to myself for an extra hour?” 

No, she could not, even if it meant exploiting their one-year old to the horror of the Easter Bunny. Claire only smiled as the soft tears welled behind her eyes but she was determined to keep them hidden as she nudged her face into the crook of his neck. Owen wasn’t heedless of her warm tears as they settled on his bare skin, nor was he going to make a cause to point them out. They both knew that the day was going to be especially rough and, even if Claire had thrown herself into work because of it, she couldn’t hide from Owen. 

“Juliett is looking down on us, you know. She was taken to be Charlie’s personal angel, and she gave us our little piece of heaven. And today, of all days, she just wants us to be happy. So,” he pulled back only the slightest bit to look at Claire, reaching up to drag the pad of his thumb across her cheek, whisking away the tear stains before tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, “smile for me, please?” 

* * *

 

As always, I owe everything to those of you who make up my raptor dream-team: @amelias-obsessions, @clawengradearings-world, @poeticandvaguelysweet, @captainandbucky, @lannisterslioness, @verxxotle, @cali-forniacationn, @endearing-claire, @firestarter91, @all–the–dancers, @privatez0mbie, and I’m sure there are so many of you that I’m forgetting to tag, and I profusely apologize.

* * *

 


	2. Be Still (I'm With You)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This prompt came from @poeticandvaguelysweet who thought it’d be cool to hurt me requested the following prompt from a list of angsty dialogue: “How could you do this to me? After everything we’ve been through?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I don’t know why I keep letting her hurt me, but here we are again. I don't have much to say right now because my head hurts from crying staring at this goddamn screen for hours. Submit a prompt, if you’d like. I’m always accepting because I’m a piece of sadistic Clawen trash.

_Does it hurt, when death knocks on the door? Does it hurt to die? Is it the pain leading up to death that hurts the most? Does the act of dying hurt? Who does it hurt more? Those who are left behind, who feel the loss each and every single day? Or is it more agonizing to the one being taken from this world? Are there different levels? Is death simply death?_

* * *

 

She was numb, void of the heart-shattering pain that should have been coursing through her veins and threatening to corrupt her into a woman no one would notice. There were no thoughts buzzing in her mind, no list of the jobs she needed to accomplish before the sun rose.

“Claire, why don’t you come out here and eat something? I made eggs and pancakes...” Karen stood quietly at the entrance to the nursery and kept a watchful eye on her younger sister. She had flown in days before once Owen had called with the news. It was no question, honestly; she dropped work without a question and Ryan stayed behind to watch the boys. The next night she was on a red-eye flight to the small island off Costa Rica. 

Now that she wasn’t even speaking, Karen sighed and began to walk away, moving back out to the kitchen to stand in silence with Owen. She didn’t need to meet his gaze for the words to pass between them. “She’s not coming out, is she?” He muttered a moment later and reached across the counter to pluck a cold pancake from the top of the stack before biting into the side. He’d already been exiled to sleeping in bed alone since Claire wasn’t going to leave the nursery any day soon, but Owen had come to terms with the separation. He'd told himself too many times to count that it wasn’t his fault this happened, nor was it hers, but Claire wasn’t willing to be convinced of that. Not at this point.

Not ever.

* * *

 

 **Eight** **months** **later**

" _Things the doctors never tell you after going through IVF treatment_ ,” Claire read the first sentence of the article aloud while peeking over her laptop every so often to see if Owen was still awake on the other end of the couch. They’d been laying together for  _hours_ , her legs resting in his lap and vice-versa. When she poked fun at him only minutes before, telling him that his jittery legs were going to knock over her laptop, he didn’t seem to appreciate it, but when she snuck a hand underneath and began massaging the ball of his foot he didn’t seem to mind any longer. 

They’d made quite the comeback, even if it had taken more patience than Owen ever thought he obtained in his six-foot-two frame. He’d taken a temporary leave from the park, just as she had, to be at home and take care of things around the house. In the days after Karen had left to return back to her own life, Owen had felt miserable in being unable to help his wife. He didn’t know  _how_  to care for her after the miscarriage and, even if he’d had the  _right_  words to say, he knew they wouldn’t have mattered. 

And now? Now, when the  _second_  IVF treatment had taken hold and she was entering the twenty-first week, he was more cautious than ever. “Wait --” he reached forward for the laptop and pulled it from her bare stomach to rest on her upper thighs before he motioned for her to continue. Claire simply glared at him and crossed both arms over her chest. “What the hell was that for? You know I can’t see that far when I don’t have my glasses on, and I’ve already taken my contacts out for the night.” Wearing glasses had been bothering her eyes as of late, and the contacts surely hadn’t helped, either. It was as if the little alien inside her was taking over  _all_  organs, including her eyes. 

“You’re going to  _bake_  our future child if you keep resting that damn thing on your stomach, you know. Plus, wouldn’t it be easier to grab you iPad and read from there?” While he only wanted to tease her, Owen could feel himself becoming protective over their child before they even knew the sex. Correction: they’d both  _chosen_  to not find out the sex, and were quickly learning they despised the decision. Yet, neither wanted to admit they’d lost  _that_ bet. 

Claire could hardly stop the laughter that escaped her, forcing her entire body to shake as the mental image of  _baking_  an heirloom tomato popped into mind as the conversation from a week before struck a memory.

* * *

 

" _Do you want to know what our baby is the size of today?”_

 _Claire, who had busied herself with reading through the surveillance reports from the past month, glanced up from her office-desk to glare at Owen across the room. He’d decided to eat lunch with her today -- not that Claire minded when he stopped in un-announced -- but he was_ crunching _his way through an apple without a care in the world and it was grating her nerves. “What?”_

_“An apple,” he smiled, holding up the half-eaten fruit. Claire nodded mindlessly before she began to look back down at the report, trailing a finger across the page to ensure she didn’t lose track of where she was. It was the smallest mannerisms, such as how she read, that made Owen fall in love with her more every single day. As hard as she tried, she couldn’t get back into the report with him staring at her. “Yes, Owen, I know what an apple is, and I certainly know how it sounds when you’re eating one.”_

_He lifted himself out of the creaking chair and closed the distance between them, throwing the core of the apple in the garbage, before he pressed a hand onto either arm of the chair she was in and, thankful that it was on wheels, pushed her back from the desk so he could squeeze in between. “Please, stop focusing on work for a minute and talk to me, instead?” Once she had silently obliged, he reached back for the apple on her desk -- courtesy of him -- and held it in the palm of his hand. “Today, our baby,” he reached forward and gingerly rested his other on her stomach, “is as big as this apple, and he’s going to continue to grow.”_

_The tears hit only moments later as she bowed her head and kissed his forearm, pressing her lips to any surface of his skin that she could reach. She had been harsh lately, that she knew, but it was only because she was_ always _waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the punch-line to hit. An ‘April Fool’s’, you’re_ not _pregnant. She didn’t even have the energy to tell him he was wrong; fifteen weeks was an apple,_ twenty _weeks was a banana._

 _Once he recognized the tears on his skin weren’t just wet kisses left behind by her lips, Owen reached to cup her chin in the palm of his hand and attempted to lift her gaze. “Claire,” he warned as she struggled against him. As she gritted her teeth in a poor attempt to close off the soft sobs that tore through her chest, he knelt down on the tile floor and shifted his gaze to see her eyes. Maybe at first he thought she was in pain, the same pain from_ before _, but when she opened her eyes and he saw tears of frustration and_ desperation,  _he knew she wasn’t. “Talk to me, please?”_

 _“I don’t want_ this _to end. I don’t want to wake up one morning and find out I’m not pregnant.” Did he know how many pregnancy tests she’d taken? At least once a week just to help her peace of mind, to remind herself that she was still very much pregnant. Owen furrowed his eyebrows into a tight-knit line when he wasn’t sure how to take her words and surely needed more insight into her worries. “Why do you think it’s going to happen now?”_

 _“I don’t know, because I feel like every time I move I could put it in harm’s way. That, even on a good day when we’re laying on the couch together, I_ always _feel like something could go wrong, and if that happens, I won’t be able to handle it.”_ _As his wife unleashed her fears to him, complete with tears that even he couldn’t resolve, Owen leaned forward slowly and began to unbutton her skirt, his movements slow and precise, and even Claire couldn't help but to angle her gaze down at his hands. “Owen...” Did she really have to remind him that they were in her_ office _with the door_ unlocked _?_

 _“I’m not doing anything,” he whispered and she felt her heart fall into her stomach. Was it too much to_ wish _he would? No, of course not. It wasn’t like it’d be the first time. “You’ve already made it farther than you did with Juliett, you know.” Just hearing her name sent shivers down her spine and an eery discomfort filled the room. They’d never spoken her name in her office, and as far as Claire was concerned, thinking about their first daughter in a place that could have contributed to the miscarriage wasn’t on her to-do list._

_“Stop, just stop saying her name,” Claire demanded with a firm tone that Owen would not take lightly. Instead, he continued to mess with her skirt, pushing at the material until her bump was hiding under the sheer tank-top._

_“Ah, there our girl is,” He smiled up at Claire with a soft laugh, knowing she caught the sudden sex change of their growing baby. It was never just one or the other; he was constantly changing up the sex, trying to determine what would sound better, while Claire was still determined to ignore him. She didn’t want to know; she wanted the surprise of the sex being revealed at the birth, which radically contrasted her personality of being an organization-guru.  Teasingly he leaned in to press his lips against the slightest bump that made up her stomach. It was still small, considering she was merely twenty weeks, but it was perfectly rounded so he could cup her with both hands._

_Owen continued to gently rub his hands across her stomach, soothing motions that he learned early in their relationship would surely calm her. It didn’t matter where they were (although he tended to steer clear of it when in public) if he would only wrap his arms around Claire with both hands resting on her stomach, it comforted her. “I will not let anything happen to our girl,” he breathed while pulling back to look up at her, “do you hear me? I will not let anything come in the way of meeting her, holding her, kissing her for the first time. Nothing, I promise you.”_

* * *

 

 _"_ I really want to stop talking about IVF, Claire.” Owen groaned, not for the first time that night. It’d been all she wanted to talk about for the entire day and, even when he didn’t want to hurt her feelings, ‘ _shut up_ ’ sure didn’t seem like the right way to inform her of his ill-will towards the experimental procedures. 

Clearly disturbed, Claire tilted her head back to rest against the arm of the couch, letting a sigh slowly filter from her lungs before she thought it was a good time to speak. They both took opposing sides on the matter; Owen wanted to try naturally, to try until they were successful in conceiving. Yet, Claire had this idea stuck in her head that her biological clock was ticking out. _‘The eggs won't stay fresh in the chicken coop forever, Owen,’_ she remembered telling him one night as they laid in bed.  _‘Jules was naturally conceived, why can’t this baby be?’_

“Is it  _really_ that upsetting?” One look from him was her answer. “Fine, what would you like to talk about?” Claire closed her Mac (rather harshly, to add) and reached over to set it on the bare coffee table. Owen watched every movement with careful precision, ready to lurch forward to help if she needed it. 

Not that his beautiful girlfriend wasn’t capable. Because, well, she was. 

“Come on, pick a subject,” she rushed, digging both elbows into the couch to lift herself to sit. For some reason she felt that sitting tall (taller than he was slumped over) gave her leverage in their relationship. However, Owen never told her that the only leverage she would  _ever_  need was the earthquake-initiating glare she gave.  _That_  could move mountains. Nonetheless, he waited until she had her moment of glory, complete with a firm smirk resting on her lips before he pushed himself off his end of the couch. Acting like he was going to stand, Owen pulled a fast one and was kneeling on the couch, pressing a knee between her legs as he hovered over her. 

“Let’s talk about sex, baby,” he whispered the lyrics with his lips pressed against her throat, “let’s talk about you and me.” Owen continued until he made it to her earlobe, nipping playfully at her skin until he heard the ever-familiar gasp and she exhaled a shaky breath. “Owen, please...” 

Sex while pregnant hadn't been a conversation for the first few months. It happened, sure, but it wasn’t a regular or consistent by any means. It was spontaneous, just as they were in their relationship, but it mostly happened when  _Claire_  was in the mood, putting Owen on his own for getting off, even if she liked to watch. 

“Please, what? Use your words, talk to me,” he commanded between breathy silence, trailing his lips to hers. It was a simple request, but one that she didn’t exactly want to abide by. Minutes passed before she spoke up again, raising a hand to press against his bare chest, spreading her legs as he pushed his knee gently against the apex of her thighs. Gently, he reached between them and slid a hand past the elastic waistband of  _his_  sweatpants that were a few sizes too big, but it helped to make her comfortable when they were simply lounging around the house. 

Plus, the sight of her clad in  _only_  a sports bra and his pants? Priceless. 

He traced a soft weaving pattern over her pelvic bone and smiled at the twitching muscles in her upper thighs. He knew what she was thinking; he was going to tease her all night until she begged to come and, while Owen could get off just on the idea, it wasn’t exactly in the plans for the night. Admittedly, he didn’t have a  _plan_ , only to make his wife come, if she wanted. 

And from the panting sounds coming from her perfectly shaped and flushed lips, he would say it was certainly on her mind. 

With a tender touch, Owen sat back on his heels and began to peel away the layers that kept her hidden. He tugged on the elastic band with a smirk before it was slipping down her thighs and he could toss them to the ground. Next was the grey, lace thong he'd bought her as part of their one-year anniversary gift. Since then,  _every_  piece of lingerie he gave was grey. It wasn’t to match her moods, or personality, it was to remind her that she had a choice; that nothing was black and white in her mind. One he’d dropped the material to the floor, he resumed his position of hovering over her, gently nudging her legs apart with one hand as the other explored her, touching her for the millionth time but committing it to memory, just as he had before. 

“Oh no, no, no,  _no,”_ Claire groaned and tried to tighten her legs together, but he was in her way. “I want  _you_ , not your fingers.” Sure, he was  _fan-fucking-tastic_ with his fingers and knew every trick in the book, but for the first time in  _weeks_  she wanted true, toe-curling, muscle spasming sex. Complete with the orgasm (or cherry) on top. 

A sly smirk tightened on his lips as he tested the waters, sliding one finger between her lips and over her clit, sighing as she moaned with frustration. “If you’re going to tease me, then just --” her lips parted as he slid two fingers into her and started to slowly worked a pace, pulling out before he thrusted in once more, working her to a respectable edge in the matter of minutes until he pulled away with a smirk. “Ready for me now?” Owen stood slowly and worked to discard his boxers until they joined the heap of clothes on the floor.

Owen nodded towards the kitchen and settled for grabbing a glass of water as Claire took off -- albeit slowly -- towards their bedroom. He gathered their clothes to ensure she wouldn’t trip in the middle of the night and flipped off the lights around the house before he followed suit towards their room. When he made it to the threshold, he laughed quietly and sighed at the sight of his girlfriend, in bed, fast asleep.

* * *

 

 **Six months** **later**  

The world was dark. The lights in different homes across the island hadn’t been turned off, there wasn’t a power-outage in the park, but to Claire, the world had suddenly gone from grey to  _black_. Nonexistent. 

Everything had happened so quickly.  _Too_  quickly. One moment he was with her, the next he was gone. It occurred almost as a dream to her, one she had replayed second by second until she’d driven herself crazy. 

The doctors said that, if it hadn’t been for him, Charlie would have never survived. They were constantly reminding Claire that he couldn’t have felt pain as the force from the hit would have killed him instantly, likely to the head trauma due to not wearing a seatbelt. At the angle the car slammed into theirs, combined with his height, it was a miracle their daughter wasn’t harmed. The specialists who had taken their daughter away from her in the emergency room to run x-rays and scans of different varieties said she was as perfect as could be. Charlie practically slept through most of the horror; she certainly took after her father in that aspect. Claire was sent home the next day with orders to ‘ _take it easy_ ’ and a note to be off work for no less than a week. 

It was only a day later that Karen arrived, unannounced, on the doorstep and, after much argument, demanded that she be let in to see her niece. There was no mention of Owen, or the accident, and Claire couldn’t be more thankful. She was living in a world of denial, one where Owen was still alive, where he’d come home from work later than normal and walk right to her, wrap his arms around her waist and lift her feet off the ground. 

She was waiting for him to save her for the second time. 

Karen reminded her daily until the funeral that she had to fight through the pain for Charlie, and herself, but Claire had no idea how to even  _look_  at their daughter when everything reminded her of  _him,_ right down to the way her lips tweaked when she slept. There was no way she could ever  _hate_  their child, but she was finding a new way to hate  _him_  for leaving them behind. The morning of the funeral was sure to be the hardest day she’d lived on this earth. When Claire woke to the sun shining in through the parted curtains, she groaned and cursed the sky for betraying her. How could it be  _sunny_ when her soul was dark and mangled from the accident?

Somehow, she found the strength to make it through her usual morning routines, right down to feeding Charlie. She’d felt so disconnected from their child for the days leading up to the funeral and the only time she  _could_  look at Charlie without crying was when she fed the beautiful girl. Latched onto her with her bright green eyes staring straight up at Claire, she sighed quietly and gently ran her hand over the girl’s head, smiling as her strawberry-blonde hair tickled the palm of her hand. She was the perfect mix of Owen and herself, and it was absolutely the most painful idea in the world.

* * *

 

The way his mother had spoken at the funeral was absolutely beautiful. She shared such kind memories of her son, and wished that he was sitting in Heaven with his father, watching down on those he left behind. Fiona had shared a prayer with those who had congregated to say goodbye to him and, just when Claire thought she was done, Fiona asked her to say a few words. 

Respectfully, Claire remained seat and waved to the woman standing beside her son’s grave, nodding to the sleeping infant she held steady in her arms. It was the only way to keep Charlie from crying; when she was put into the carrier, the child wept loudly for hours, but the moment she was cuddled in her mother’s arms, it was as if nothing in the world could touch her. 

It wasn’t long until the service was over and Claire was left by herself, sans Charlie, graveside to mourn the loss of her husband. While the well that held her tears was empty, if she could have separated her chest for all to see, her heart would be still with the sorrow of losing the man she loved. “You should see her,” she whispered, bringing the cloth napkin to her nose and wiping before grasping it between both hands in her lap, “every single day she looks more like you. Everything from her eyes, and she surely has yours, to her ears which I just love. I love everything about this child that you gave me, and yet, at the same time, I can’t help but hate you for leaving us behind.” 

Now that she had the chance to speak the words without anyone around, Claire stood from the chair and took two steps before she fell to her knees beside the coffin that had yet to be lowered into the ground. “You are the man that I  _chose_  to love, and I know you didn’t  _choose_  to leave, but I can’t imagine what unruly force would take you away from me. Is that what I deserve?” With both fists balled she struck them against the side of the wooden coffin, jostling the spread of flowers until three pale pink roses fell into the grave below. Fisting both hands into her fiery-locks, Claire screamed louder this time, as if he would hear her. “How could you do this to me? After  _everything_  we’ve been through?” 

At the moment the wind whipped around her, Claire fell back to rest against her heels and pulled both hands to cup her face as she cried openly, letting the warmth of the tears soothe the palm of her hand where her nails had dug into the flesh. 

It felt like hours that she sat there as her eyes tried and her mind cleared, allowing her to think without dread obstructing her for the first time in days. It wasn’t comforting to know that, once the coffin was lowered into the ground, he would be gone.  _Forever_. And the pain that she felt from being away from him for the rest of her life was too much to bear. As she stood, arms wrapped around her and pulled her close, and for a split second she could smell his cologne.  _He isn’t dead._  When she finally turned into the comforting embrace, she realized Karen was carrying the sports jacket he wore to formal events, one of the few she had to choose between to bury him in. “He’ll always love you, Claire. You know that.”

* * *

 

**Five years later**

_To the love of my life,_

_I can’t believe today we’re celebrating Charlie’s fifth birthday. Can you believe our baby girl is five? She’s rambunctious, and she looks so much like you. She’s even talking about being a paleontologist when she grows up: imagine_ our _daughter saying that five times fast. Her lisp reminds me of the stories your mother told me about yours when you were younger and it just fills me with joy. Charlie doesn’t stop asking about you. At first, when she first wanted to know_ where  _her dad was, I couldn’t bear the thought of explaining to her that you’re gone, that she’ll never meet you. Like an unfit mother, I avoided the question until I was no longer able to sleep with the pain at night. It was the second hardest day of my life; explaining to Charlie that you were in a better place._

_I say better place lightly, so don’t get off on the idea that you’re eating bonbons for the hell of it. That isn’t exactly comforting._

_I still can’t move past the fact that you’ve been gone for five years. This letter isn’t meant to be doom and gloom, I’ve moved past that (and if you’re up in heaven, or wherever dead people go that is farther away than Hell, then you’d know that I have reasons to smile). Our daughter is the first. The second is my sister for helping us move to San Diego, where I’ve been able to continue with the park. They’re in the planning stage of building a sister park here in the area, did you know that?_

_Of course you did._

_God, I love you so fucking much, and writing this makes me miss you that much more. Keep an eye out on us who are still fighting the evil, okay? And say hello to our beautiful Juliett. I know you were holding her in your strong embrace the moment you reconnected with her._

_I will always be yours, Owen._

_Until we meet again,_

_Claire_

* * *

 

***End note: while this does include Owen dying, the Juliett and Charlie HC will not be exclusive to having Owen dead, unless otherwise stated. So he is very much alive, don’t worry.**

* * *

 

As always, I owe everything to those of you who make up my raptor dream-team: @amelias-obsessions, @clawengradearings-world, @poeticandvaguelysweet, @captainandbucky, @lannisterslioness, @verxxotle, @cali-forniacationn, @endearing-claire, @firestarter91, @all–the–dancers, @privatez0mbie, and I’m sure there are so many of you that I’m forgetting to tag, and I profusely apologize.


	3. Six Billion (All You Need Is One)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This prompt came from @cometothedarkside-x and was taken from the list of One Hundred Ways To Say ‘I Love You’ (which I am most certainly still accepting prompts for, but be warned, fluff and I have a damaged relationship).
> 
> 7\. “I dreamt about you last night.”  
> 18\. “Here, drink this, you’ll feel better.”  
> 24\. “Just because.”  
> 74\. “We can share.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I sincerely hope I didn't butcher the idea you had for this set of ways to say ‘I love you’, Nadin... you know fluff and I don’t get along very well! But, nonetheless, here you go, lovely! Thank you, again, for the request! Now, someone please throw me in the trash because I'm ashamed of this fluff. The end.

_At this moment, there are 6,470,818,671 people in the world. Some are running scared. Some are coming home. Some tell lies to make it through the day. Others are just now facing the truth. Some are evil men, at war with good. And some are good, struggling with evil. Six billion people in the world. Six billion souls._

_And sometimes -- all you need is one._

_Peyton Sawyer, One Tree Hill_

* * *

 

“How does a dinosaur say goodnight when Papa comes to turn off the light? Does a dinosaur slam his tail and pout? Does he throw his teddy bear all about?” Claire paused for a split second to glance down at the sleeping toddler on the screen before smiling, seeing Karen in the background. “Am I supposed to keep going?” While she kept her voice at a soft whisper, she knew if her slipped past the next octave, Daphne, her niece, would surely wake. 

It may have been one of the many perks of not having children of their own; she was allowed to read to her niece (and nephews, when they were around) without having her arm fall asleep from a snoring child cutting off a nerve. 

“Does a dinosaur stomp his feet on the floor and shout: _‘I want to hear one book more!’_? Does a dinosaur roar? Most certainly not. Dinosaurs give their mommies and daddies big hugs and kisses, tuck their tails in, and whisper, “good night!” Claire watched with awe as her sister continued to rock her two year old daughter, quietly whispering soft nothings to ease the beautiful girl to sleep. It was times like these, in only these moments of watching her sweet niece sleep, that Claire could feel the pang settle deep inside her chest.

That pain? Well, it vanished the moment Daphne began to cry for her own bed, wanting to be free of her mother’s hold. “There’s my cue,” Claire joked, tossing the book onto the bed as she angled her phone towards Owen who blocked his face with a pillow. “The asshole laying next to me says goodnight, too,” she laughed. 

“Claire! Your language!” 

Make that the  _second_  reason the pain inside her chest was dissipating as the milliseconds raced by. “ _Right,”_ she popped her lips at the end as she smiled and waved, promising another FaceTime date soon, and ended the call. Was that supposed to be so goddamn stressful? Before Claire could offer up her thoughts on children being the biggest cockblock of them all, Owen turned towards her with a wicked smirk breaking his grin. 

“Do you hear that?”

Unsure exactly what he meant -- and frightened for a moment that her vibrator had turned on in the bedside drawer  _again_  -- Claire groaned and hesitated before she glanced towards the table; she didn’t hear any buzzing, so that was a good sign. “Hear what?” 

Swept up in the whirlwind that was the flash of his tanned skin jumping from the bed before heading out of their room, Claire laughed and sank further into the bed and reached onto his side of the bed for the remote. There was no reason to watch  _basketball_ when it was her turn to choose what they watched. Minutes later, Claire couldn’t understand the reason it mattered since she was already falling asleep at  _eight_. She was losing her touch, clearly. 

“That is the sweet, sweet sound of --” As he rounded the corner into their room, Owen came to an abrupt stop at the threshold and groaned quietly. “Claire Elizabeth, are you  _really_  falling asleep? It isn’t even eight  _and_ I got dessert for the two of us.” 

 _Dessert?_  She was  _considerably_ wakened at the word, her eyes fluttering open as she stared straight ahead at the carton of frozen yogurt he held carefully in one hand. Where was the other? He handed the carton over as he made a move to slide back into bed, resting his thigh over hers. When Claire barely made a peep, Owen glanced over to be met with a soft frown. “What’s wrong?” Had he chosen the wrong kind? 

“Nothing,” her eyes darted from the carton to the spoon he held between his first and middle fingers; was he planning to each by himself? “But, I’m curious... am I just holding this for  _you_  until you get settled into bed?” 

Owen knew the question would arise any minute now, he was just waiting for it. From the first time they shared a carton together -- and if he had remembered  _one_  distinct thing about her -- it was the fact that Claire could not handle peering into the freezer to see that a chunk had been missing before she was able to take the first bite. It wasn’t an issue of greed or being the first for  _everything,_ she loved the job title of being the ‘taste-tester’. Sure, it was childish, but it made him love her all the more. 

He rolled his eyes calmly, “are you honestly asking me that, Claire?” While he knew she was fiercely independent and prided herself on the empowering quality, Owen had also known that, at times, she needed to be reassured that he had picked up on her traits and was no the bone-head she’d agreed to settle into a relationship with four years prior. 

“Well, it’s an  _honest_  question. I’m merely curious, because the last time I was informed,  _black cherry_  isn’t at the top of your list.” Claire winked and leaned over him, resting the chilled carton against his bare shoulder, watching as he squirmed beneath the touch.

The warmth of her smile melted his heart and he pressed against her with the same force before he stole a quick kiss from her lips. “We can share, Claire.” 

“As long as I don’t have to share  _you_ , I can abide by those rules.”

* * *

 

It’d barely been a month since they were laying in bed together, FaceTiming with Karen, and yet it felt like centuries had passed since he’d been able to pull Claire close. “Remind me, how many days until you’re home?” Owen practically pouted the words into the phone as he clutched it tightly to his ear. Sure, having their house to himself for the week she was in San Diego was going to be great, but the fact that he was sleeping  _alone_  was the last straw. “Come home tonight, our bed is  _freezing_  without you.” 

Claire simply scoffed at his outrageous claim and rolled her eyes. “We both know that I’m the one that makes our bed cold, and you just keep it warm. Remember? My heart is coated in a thick layer of ice.” While she missed him just as tenderly, Claire knew he would survive, just as she would. 

“I dreamt about you last night, you know...” 

They’d never  _needed_  each other to continue living. In the first year of their relationship they both had made a promise that if, by some chance, they split, neither would take drastic measures after. They  _wanted_  to spend the rest of their lives together, but Claire didn’t  _need_  him to continue breathing, she merely -- 

She paused once his words registered in her cluttered mind, full of conference classes and spreadsheets that she had created during the day.  _‘It’s called multitasking,’_ she’d been told by a senior advisor of the conference. _‘As the Senior Assets Manager at Jurassic World, I figured you would have mastered the art all ready.’_ Clearly. Just as she drifted off into thought again, the echoing of his words resounded in her mind. Claire didn’t need to question his motives of enlightening her; she was most certainly aware of what he was trying to do.  _It won’t work,_ she told herself,  _not tonight._  

The soft yet wicked laughter that met her ears made her curl her toes into the bed sheet as she arched her back away from the firm mattress. Snatching her mouth closed to purse her lips to stifle the soft purr, Owen merely smirked. “You were just going to moan, weren’t you? Oh babe, do you think I’m immune to your attempt of keeping me out of your head?” There was a word for her boyfriend, and he was a cold-hearted dick.  _Cold hard-ed? No, no. no._ “Owen, please don’t tempt me, not while I’m away and can’t have  _you_.” The change in her voice didn’t go unnoticed. Every infliction of her softening tone confirmed what he had already known: she was slipping against her will.  _Is she all ready touching herself?_

“Come on, I can tell that you’re practically itching to touch, and it’s just me...” Owen sank further into the sheets as he felt himself growing harder at the thought of Claire touching herself without him there to watch, and it would make him a jackass to ask if he could  _watch_. At home, it wasn’t nearly an issue, but when she was thousands of miles away? 

While she tried to quiet herself, Claire knew it was only a matter of minutes before her breathing would become staggered and her moans would turn into whimpers. “Who says I’m not?” 

The smirk was palpable in her voice and it only spurred Owen to let his hand drift to his waist, snaking beneath the elastic waistband of his boxers, gripping himself with need. “Fuck, Claire,” he groaned, tossing his head back against the fort of pillows surrounding him. 

While she knew he would kill him for  _stopping,_ it was obvious that he needed to get off more than she. So, in favor of pleasing  _him_ , Claire pulled her hand from between her legs and quietly sat up in bed but continued the soft, breathy moans, whispering his name until she heard his breathing weaken. “Just imagine me there. I’m straddling your waist, leaning over to pepper kisses against your skin as I sink down on you and you’re filling me.” Honestly, it had taken Claire a while to grow used to phone sex. Sure, while they were traveling it was the closest they could get to being intimate and  _together_ , but the motions of it had seemed awkward. Especially when she normally stayed over in a hotel; the walls were already paper-thin. 

“Claire, fuck, you feel --” Owen groaned and stroked himself faster, speeding towards the release he  _craved_. Dare he say he  _needed_  it. Not that there would be anything wrong with admitting such, but he knew his girlfriend would simply roll her eyes.  _‘You don’t need to come,’ she would say, ‘you just want to.’_ He lost complete control as he came with a loud groan, his body spasming as he rocked his hips against thin air. It wasn’t often that it he found himself drifting off -- not  _sleeping_ \-- after coming, but as he closed his eyes and listened to her even breathing, Owen furrowed his eyebrows into a tight-knit line. “Claire?” 

After a moment of smiling, she nodded despite him being unable to see her, “yes?” 

“Did you learn how to orgasm silently in the three days you’ve been gone, or did I completely zone-out and miss it?”  _Fuck, if I missed listening to her come I’m going to slam my head against the goddamn wall._

Silence wedged into the spaces between his words as she lay still, careful not to make a peep. Could she fool him into thinking she had drifted off?  _That’s so fucking lame, just own up to it._  After she inhaled deeply and held the breath in, hoping it would give her the last bit of guts, Claire laughed as she exhaled. “I didn’t come.” 

“What do you mean you  _didn’t_ come? I was listening to you the entire time, your breathing --” Had she fooled him into thinking she was touching just so he would, too? “Claire, that’s mean.” 

She scoffed, “what’s  _mean_  about it? I wanted you to come without having the pressure of trying to listen to me. I know you like to and, if you would’ve been concentrating on listening to my orgasm, you wouldn’t have put as much effort into your own. Which, by the way, sounded pretty damn blissful.” 

While he couldn’t deny that it had been absolutely blissful to let himself go in such a relaxed setting, he couldn’t help but hold onto the slightest bit of resentment. “You wouldn’t have done that had I  _actually_  been thrusting into you, y’know.” Of course, Claire knew that, and it was the entire reason for her master plan. 

What had started off as a ridiculous way to pick a fight -- all because he  _missed_ her -- turned into a quiet conversation about his day in the park and hers in conference rooms, listening to speakers from around the world. They shared in the stories that they couldn’t tell in person and, when she realized he was drifting off, Claire sighed and slowly let the slightest pain of  _missing him_  settle in her mind. 

“I think you should go to sleep,” she whispered, threading a hand through her hair as she turned onto her side, grabbing a spare pillow to hug to her chest but imagining it was him instead. With her eyes closed, Claire could  _almost_  pick up the faintest smell of his familiar cologne, and if she tried hard, could recognize the kiss he always placed on her shoulder each night. “I love you, Owen. Go to sleep.” 

“Why do you love me?” He muttered, his voice laced with the tendrils of sleep that were tugging on his mind. 

“Just because,” she breathed as a smile slipped to her features. How was she supposed to put into coherent words the way she loved him? Claire busied herself with building the list in her mind as she listened to him drift off, biting into her bottom lip when he began to snore. “I love you just because, Owen Grady. Just because.”

* * *

 

"This is fucking torture,” Claire whined and slapped both hands on the mattress, throwing her head back against the pillow (which she deeply regretted mere seconds later). The last day in San Diego, which was meant to be a  _free day_ spent touring some of the sights in the area ended up with a trip to the local health clinic and, three hours later, a prescription for a hefty round of Amoxicillin to fight the bacteria that had settled into her lungs. Needless to say, getting back to Isla Nublar was a trip she never wanted to make while her lungs were shit.

Especially when it ended up that she needed to be in bed for  _days_. The fourth, to be exact. 

Owen perched himself on the side of the bed and mustered his most sympathetic smile, reaching out to take his hand in her own, growling at how chilled her skin was. While she was driving him crazy, Owen had his own right to be worried about her. It was all ready the fourth day of antibiotics and she didn’t seem to be improving, especially when it came to the  _wheezing_  noises she made when doing the least-strenuous activity: laying in bed. 

“I know you think  _this_  is torture,” he breathed and raised their hands to his lips, kissing across her knuckles, “but I can think of a few other things I’d like to do to you that would  _really_  be classified as torture.” While it was a risky trick -- using  _sex_ \-- to try and elicit a smile, it was worth it when she chuckled softly. That was until it turned into a competition between her lungs and stomach; which would be the first to give in? 

Immediately Owen jumped from the bed and reached for the nightstand, grasping at thin air when the mug of hot tea with honey wasn’t where he had put it. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, I left it downstairs.” With one look at Claire, who had tears streaming down her face from the lack of control, he darted towards the door with a quick mutter that he’d be back. Racing towards the stairs, nearly tripping (and dying) over Whiskey, their three-month old golden retriever, he was back within a minute. With one hand pressed against her back and the other holding the mug out for her, Owen growled quietly when she shook her head. 

 _Oh, fuck no. I’m not going to watch you suffocate when you’re too stubborn to admit defeat._ “Drink this, you’ll feel better,” he muttered, lifting the cup to her lips. “Claire,  _please_.” He waited for a moment before she gave in and wrapped one hand around the mug and brought it to her lips. While it was strong with the taste of money, the mint began to soothe her throat in the matter of minutes after she chugged half the mug, avoiding his gaze simply because she knew he was wearing a shit-eating grin. 

"I hate that you’re always right,” she grumbled and laid back, turning on her side. It wasn’t but a second later when she reached out for him, a frown forming on her lips. Where he thought she was teasing, Claire couldn’t have been more serious; staying in bed was going to be the death of her, and she didn’t even have a say in it. “Please, lay with me? I’m tired of being in here by myself.” 

Unable to resist his girlfriend, Owen swiftly kicked his shoes off as each hit a different point and fell under the bed.  _Oh well._ He pulled back the sheet and slid beneath, instantly reaching for her waist to pull her closer. They lay in silence for what seemed like hours until he leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, “I love you,  _just because.”_

* * *

 

As always, I owe everything to those of you who make up my raptor dream-team: @amelias-obsessions, @clawengradearings-world, @poeticandvaguelysweet, @captainandbucky, @lannisterslioness, @verxxotle, @cali-forniacationn, @endearing-claire, @firestarter91, @all–the–dancers, @privatez0mbie, [@dealingdreams](https://tmblr.co/mh5E4_yKC6ipUBq6Q9nz1hA), and I’m sure there are so many of you that I’m forgetting to tag, and I profusely apologize.


	4. Do You Hear That?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, this isn't anything of great importance, but a lovely anon sent me a message wanting to know the story behind the vibrator turning on (which can be found in chapter three of this mess that I call writing -- same collection of prompts) and so I decided to whip something up for their laughing pleasure. Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still don’t know what the fuck this turned out to be, but I hope you (you, the lovely anon who asked for it) enjoy it.

“ _Do you hear that_?”

For starters, Claire didn’t give a shit  _what_ she did (or didn’t) hear while laying in bed, mere moments away from drifting to sleep until Owen thought it’d be a prime time to roll over and start a conversation. The only thing she had truly cared about was the simple fact that, for the  _first_  night in ages, he wasn’t snoring. Instead, she reached up and (after trying to find his face for a solid ten seconds) pushed the palm of her hand against his nose to fight his chin off her shoulder. 

“If someone isn’t breaking into our house, I don’t want to think about what I do and don’t hear, Owen.” Claire fought the urge to open her eyes and peer at what time it was; it wasn’t nearly  _that_  important. But, as she quieted and continued to listen to his breathing -- inhale,  _pause_ , exhale,  _pause_  -- Claire couldn’t help but be intrigued by the  _humming_. 

And then the list in her mind began. “Are you sure it isn’t your phone?” Only Satan knew how often his phone was going off during the night; it was always something with the night crew at the raptor paddock, right down to Barry (bless his heart) wanting someone to ‘ _keep him company_ ’. To which Claire scoffed at the co-dependence of the man. 

“My  _phone_  does not vibrate and then pause for a second before starting again.” The annoyance in his voice was clear and, for a split second, Claire wanted to bring up the hidden fact that  _he_  was the one who had dragged  _her_  from the tendrils of sleep, all to talk about something  _vibrating_  in their bedroom. 

Unknown just how she came to know what exactly it was making the noise (but probably something along the lines of  _vibrations_ ) Claire sat up in a fury to swing her legs over the side of the bed, reaching for the bedside table. Once she pulled it open to see the hint of an illuminated green light, she couldn’t help but laugh. The barreling sound shook her as she fell back, her head resting in his lap, the sweet melody echoing through the room. “Claire, what is your issue? Did you find a book of jokes in the drawer?” Clearly, her boyfriend had never seen  _what_  they kept in the bedside table. Come to think of it, no, he probably never reached for the lube. Or the condom. That was  _her_ job. Instead of answering him, Claire hoisted herself up from the mattress and dug to the bottom before she pulled out the phallic-shaped vibrator. 

Of course she had to have the ‘real deal’. It was for... extended business trips,  _obviously_. 

Owen squinted in the darkness until it registered what she was holding, as it was still humming with her hand closed around it, and gulped thickly before a soft laugh built in his throat. “How the hell did that get turned on?” Claire shrugged and made a scene of grasping the base before she shimmied her other hand down the shaft to stroke across the illuminated button and watched as the light filtered off. “Well, isn’t that the question everyone is always asking?” She dropped the toy back into the drawer and shut it with her hip before she crawled back into bed, scooting closer to him and pressing her cold toes to his calves, listening as he hissed from the shock. “Make sure you don’t get too  _turned on_  tonight, or your fate could be the same as ‘ _The Hulk’.”_

The name on the packaging still haunted her to this day. 

* * *

 

As always, I owe everything to those of you who make up my raptor dream-team: @amelias-obsessions, @clawengradearings-world, @poeticandvaguelysweet, @captainandbucky, @lannisterslioness, @verxxotle, @cali-forniacationn, @endearing-claire, @firestarter91, @all–the–dancers, @privatez0mbie, @dealingdreams, @dinosaurswowenough, and I’m sure there are so many of you that I’m forgetting to tag for which I profusely apologize.


	5. All That I Have

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt, “They can’t do anything to me, I have nothing left”, came from @cometothedarkside-x (as well as the list of angst dialogue which I have the list for somewhere around here) who really wanted to hurt me with this pain. So, I hope you’re satisfied by this angst. Oh, and you’re welcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I haven’t exactly been on my A-game lately when it comes to writing. I was thrown off last week due to some health stuff, and I’ve just been dragging lately. I literally had four (or was it five?) drafts that have been started that I can’t finish because my mind has been in a constant drowsy mode as of late. So, I’m hoping this week not only brings good news with the MRI I’m having done tomorrow night, but that my writing will get back up to par.

“Claire, you know he’s only suggesting it for your sake, right? He only wants you to feel better.” Karen’s monotonous mutter drifted across the line as Claire held the phone to her ear, considering leaving it on the table for her sister to talk to the thin air. She’d had enough of the helpful hints of therapy or a support group, both which made her want to gag. She wasn’t going to sit in a room full of other women who’d survived the same diagnosis; she wasn’t going to  _bond_ with other women who’d lost pieces of themselves, too. 

The thought of admitting she needed help was the equivalent of throwing in the towel and allowing the negative energy to surround her (even though it had already engulfed her in its flames). Claire didn't need  _therapy_  and she certainly didn’t need anyone’s  _help._

Karen sighed and tugged a hand through her lightening locks while trying to stifle the much harsher words she wanted to feed to her younger sister, but even she knew Claire wouldn’t listen. Sometimes she so badly wanted to curse the stubborn quality passed down from their mother, but it wouldn't do any good. Claire would _still_ deny it. 

“He’s suggesting it because  _you_  told him to, right?” It didn’t take a genius to realize that  _Karen_  had scrounged the information up on the group; Owen had left the printed e-mail sitting out on the kitchen counter, as if was  _waiting_  for Claire to see it; maybe then she’d take the initiative and call. 

Claire had made it known -- more than once -- that a support group would be the last resort; she’d ask for a lobotomy before it reached that point. “Just stop, please? I don’t want to talk to  _professionals,_ I don’t want to sit in the middle of a support group, I really just want to be by myself. Which, speaking of, isn’t it time you go pick up the boys... or  _something_?” 

Karen had known for their entire lives that Claire was a creature of habit; she didn’t want the help that others could provide if it meant giving up her own sanity to achieve it and, even if it hurt, sometimes leaving her little sister alone was the best. “I get what you’re hinting at, and yeah, I do. So, go get some sleep, I’ll ca -- I love you.” 

Claire mumbled a mediocre  _‘I love you, too’_ before she hung up, turned over onto her side, and hugged the nearest pillow close to her chest. 

“You know, she’s just trying to help you.” His voice filtered in from the threshold to their bedroom, and Claire didn’t have to look up to know he was leaning against the doorjamb, both arms crossed over his chest, and a sour look coating his features. It’d been the same expression he’d worn for three weeks. 

“Yeah, well they can’t do anything to me, not to take away this pain. I have nothing left.”

Owen shrugged and turned away, but didn’t walk off until he added in his snarky remark. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that still being  _alive_  suddenly meant you have nothing left to live for.” 

Claire squeezed her eyes closed and willed herself to drift off, hoping that next time she wouldn’t wake up to a life she barely recognized as her own any more. 

* * *

 

_“Owen Michael, stop!” Claire tried to wrestle out of his grip as he pinned her against the couch with one hand, sneaking his hand below the waistband of his sweats that she just so happened to be wearing. Honestly, they’d gone missing from his drawer a while back, and he didn’t have the heart to tell her to stop wearing them. It was a part of marriage that he didn’t mind in the least -- sharing his clothes, watching her couple one of his shirts, which slipped off her shoulders, with a pair of jeans. The way she tucked the material in, or sometimes she would tie it at the side, drove him crazy._

_The wicked smirk reappeared and he leaned over, pressing his lips against her collar bone. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear a ‘please’, did I?”_

_Lost in the laughter that enveloped around them, Claire nearly missed the ringing until she inhaled sharply and held her breath, pointing to her phone. “Wait, time out! I need to answer my phone!” Rolling his eyes with such ease, Owen sat back on the couch and flicked a hand through his hair, pride swelling in his chest at the way she blushed when answering the call, clearly out of breath._

_He’d never considered himself a lucky guy. Even during his time in the Navy, he’d made sure to treat himself as any other soldier; those who prided themselves on being a service-man and defending their country were the first to lose their concentration and make a stupid mistake. He’d seen it too many times before and had to helplessly watch as countless lives were taken. Even when InGen hired him, which eventually led to meeting Claire, he didn’t consider it luck. It was the working of fate._

_As he snapped out of his reverie and tossed a careless smile at Claire, Owen found himself reeling all too quickly. It wasn't just the shock forming on her features that took his breath away, it was the tears that were rolling down her cheeks, brightening her eyes in all of the wrong ways._

_“Claire, what is it? Who was that?”  
_

_“It was the gynecologist... she wants me to meet her at the office this afternoon. She... she said the biopsy came back positive.”_

_He uncurled his fist from his hair and dropped it to her thigh, squeezing gently. “Positive for what?”_

_“Cancer.”_

* * *

 

_Cancer._

_It was a harder pill to swallow than most would think. Merely thinking the word caused her to gulp after as if it brought acid up with the thoughts. Often, it burned the back of the throat and forced tears to well when spoken. Often, it took lives._

_Claire had never guessed that she would be one of the many woman who were diagnosed with the unruly disease, that she would be another percentage point of the statistics. Hell, there wasn’t a history of it in their family. But that was the funny thing about cancer. It didn’t need a reason to strike, and it surely didn’t need familial history to pinpoint its next victim._

_She’d decided after laying in bed for two days straight after the diagnosis that she wasn’t going to let the disruptive disease corrupt her life. Their life. Claire didn’t want to die, and that was the most terrifying part of it. Die with the cancer, or die from the million and one list of side-effects that came with the chemo; those were the options she had heard given to her. Claire brought up the third on her own._

_“Claire, a total hysterectomy with a bilateral salpingo-oophorectomy isn’t the regulated course of treatment for this cancer. You have ovarian cancer, and only in one ovary as we’re seeing from the PET scan, but what you’re asking is --”  
_

_Upset and frustrated wasn’t enough to describe how she’d felt walking into the praised Oncologist’s office in San Diego, and after having to leave the island to find the best in the western half of the United States, she was homesick and exhausted. “I don’t care if it isn’t the normal treatment for cancer, but I know it’s possible. I’ve talked to other oncologists, all who say it can be done, and I know you do it. But, if you aren’t willing, then I’ll --”_

_“Claire.” The moment she inched towards standing she felt Owen’s large hand span across her knee, urging her to stay sitting with the grip and his tone._

_“This is my choice,” she groaned, barely looking towards her husband. As far as she was concerned it felt like she was the only willing to fight for her life while the others were trying to preserve organs that seemed meaningless now.  
_

_Doctor Pilnar, who looked seemingly as young as the two sitting before him, glanced towards Owen to gauge his reaction. It wasn’t often that a couple came in and only one spoke, but he had the feeling that Claire was calling the shots now. “And trust me, I understand, I’m just trying to present all of your options.”  
_

_After she’d taken a moment to breathe, closing her eyes and pretending she was back on Isla Nublar, curled up on the couch with the new puppy she had respectively nicknamed Satan (who, much to Owen’s dismay, was beginning to respond to it rather than ‘Sam’) Claire frowned. “The only option I’m concerned with is this surgery and whether or not you’ll do it.”_

* * *

 

“You know, contrary to popular belief, I  _don’t_  hate you. You’re aware of this, right?” 

Curled at opposite ends of the couch, it was far later than either had been staying up since they’d returned home from San Diego after the surgery, but Claire couldn’t stand staring at the walls in their bedroom for another second. 

Owen, though, was considering approaching the idea of when he could be expecting some sleep, considering the end she was on was where his head had rested for the past week and a half. Their world had shifted onto a new axis after the surgery, and Claire had only been referring to it as their lives ‘before’ and ‘after’. There was nothing else;  _everything_ seemed to revolve around the diagnosis and what was left behind in its wake. 

Too tired to lift her head from the pillow, and frankly too uninterested to care, she merely tilted her head to the side so she could view him from the corner of her vision. “What’d you say?” 

While her voice may have contained all the innocence of her youth, Owen wasn’t playing into the card. Throwing his hands up in defense, he abruptly pushed himself off the couch and took a number of steps towards their bedroom before he turned around, his eyes alight with tears. “For fuck’s sake, Claire, when did we turn into these people? What did I fucking do to deserve this hatred?” 

Clearly taken aback by his outburst, the shock on her features cut through his core for the matter of moments before her expression flipped and he could’ve sworn her heard her snarl. “I’m sorry, now all of a sudden  _I_  hate  _you_? Where the fuck did that come from, because, unless I heard wrong, you were just preaching to the choir about not hating me.” 

“I was preaching to a choir that is  _never_  home anymore, Claire. It’s like talking to the fucking air, you’re  _never_  listening. I inhale with one breath and the next I’m talking to the rest of the goddamn oxygen that is left.” He rose his voice before slapping both hands to his thighs, shaking his head. “What are we going to do? Where the fuck do we go from here?” 

She was stuck on the bullet that had nestled itself deep inside her chest;  _hate_. It was always such a strong word, one she never like to throw around, afraid that if it dropped it would ignite like wildfire, engulfing anyone in its fiery grasp. “ _Hate_? You think I  _hate_  you?” If she weren’t fighting back the tears, Claire would’ve had enough energy to laugh. 

“That’s what I said, Claire. You haven’t looked at me longer than five seconds since we came home, and that was almost two weeks ago, and I haven’t once brought up the surgery; you won’t even answer me when I ask what you want for dinner. It’s a mere shrug or you say you’re not hungry.”

“Well, maybe I’m not hungry.”

Owen growled, “that’s bullshit and you know it. You’re mad at me, and if that’s right, then just say it.” 

“I’m not mad at you.”

Tired of the back and forth, Owen sighed and tugged a hand through his hair, but not before he approached it again. “Once again, I’m going to call your bluff. What, are you mad that I didn’t agree with the doctor that  _you_  chose, or the fact that you wanted me to  _stay here_  while you flew thousands of miles away to have a goddamn  _life-altering_  surgery and I still went with you? Which is it?” By the time he was done, his lips blue with exhaustion, he was bent over with one hand pressed against the coffee table, the other pointing at his chest, all so he could look her in the eye. “Say it, Claire.” 

He could see the tears in her eyes and the pain they held as she fought to not unleash a tirade on him. She  _wanted_ to protect him from the pain she had endured; Claire had never been one to believe in  _everyone_  being in pain only because  _one_  had to be. 

But, he also knew that if they would  _ever_  grow past this, she needed to know she could be heard. Claire balled both hands into fists at her sides, feeling the adrenaline pump through her veins as her nails made crescent-shaped indents in her skin.  _Please don’t do this to me,_  she wanted to plead, beg, and she would drop to her knees if it meant having the pain stolen away. “I  _can’t_  hate you because I don’t have enough energy to do it. I  _hate_  that you never once backed me, not from the start of it, not when I told you that I wanted to have my body cut into instead of playing Russian Roulette with chemotherapy and radiation and experimental drugs. We live on an island with  _dinosaurs,_ Owen. Ones that we have  _experimented_ on. Have you looked around long enough to notice what has happened to them?” As she finished she stood shakily, like a foal on new, wobbly legs, but with enough distance between that he couldn’t reach out and touch her. “I hate that you haven’t looked at me the same since we came home. I hate that you don’t look at me like you used to, with that same spark and recognition. I hate that you don’t look at me like you’ve found  _home_  with me.” 

As if he’d been struck by a stray bullet amidst their gun fight, Owen wobbled back until he caught himself on the nearest wall and never once ripped his gaze away from hers. “You had to have known that I wasn’t doing any of it on purpose...”  _Right_? Didn’t she know that? 

Once the tears began to roll down her cheeks, Claire had no way of turning the faucet off. They hit her chin and disappeared onto the rug, only to be followed by more. “I didn’t even ask you to stop sleeping in bed with me and then one morning I woke up and you were on the couch, Owen,” she hiccuped and clasped a hand over her mouth to muffle the noises while she wished that she could fade away into the noise and never be found again. As if he could read her mind, the moment her eyes drifted closed she felt his strong hands wrap around her waist and pull her gently against his chest, one hand moving to cup the back of her head before his lips were at her temple. 

“I am so sorry,” he breathed, every word sincere. “I never wanted you to feel that you were alone in this, and had I known it’s how you felt...” Slowly, he lowered himself down to the couch and patted his lap, readjusting so she could sit in his lap without causing pain to herself. While the incisions were healing beautifully, or so her gynecologist on the island had said so, Claire was certain the pain would always linger. 

“It’s not like you would’ve known,” she mumbled, pressing her lips against his neck in search of the familiar warmth -- and the scent of his cologne --she’d grown to love. There were few things that could comfort her as well as Owen could and, in the days after the surgery, when she was forced to sleep in the uncomfortable hospital bed, all she had dreamt about was coming home to  _their_  bed, and starting to mend the lives they’d been forced to put on hold. 

Owen kissed the side of her face, her forehead, and her nose before he forced himself to pull back. “We’re home now, let’s start rebuilding what we have left, yeah?” Owen smiled down at her and, before he realized what he’d done, lifted her chin to press his lips against hers, silently promising to fight away the pain that had once threatened to destroy them. 

* * *

 

As always, I owe everything to those of you who make up my raptor dream-team: @amelias-obsessions, @clawengradearings-world, @poeticandvaguelysweet, @captainandbucky, @lannisterslioness, @verxxotle, @cali-forniacationn, @endearing-claire, @firestarter91, @all–the–dancers, @privatez0mbie, [@dealingdreams](https://tmblr.co/mh5E4_yKC6ipUBq6Q9nz1hA), @dinosaurswowenough, and I’m sure there are so many of you that I’m forgetting to tag, and I profusely apologize.

* * *

 


	6. Don't (Break Me Down)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt response for hipbone and inner thigh kisses from the list of different kisses (no longer accepting) submitted by anonymous. This is set in the BTL!verse, which you can find more of if you click to go back to my main page of works.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so lengthy, and I hadn't planned to write so fucking much, but, y’know, sometimes you just can’t stop your fingers and brain when writing happens. These number prompts are so addicting, goddamnit.

It was late, that much he understood when he stepped inside her apartment with nothing but his leather satchel and an empty coffee mug dangling from one hand, the newly printed key that she allowed him to keep clutched in the other. As tempted as he was to call out for her and ruin the surprise of him stopping by after getting out of the office, Owen restrained himself, shrugged out of his sports jacket, and steadily walked towards her bedroom. How ever long it had been since she left his office, Owen couldn’t recall, instead he repeated the words in his mind. How many times had Claire proclaimed that if she didn’t leave neither of them would get any work done before he finally let her zip her skirt, slip back into the matte leather heels, and strut out of his office without looking back? Unfortunately, he couldn’t answer that question either. 

Granted, he didn’t think he’d be leaving the courthouse at midnight, nor had he expected to be caught in traffic on the short drive to her apartment. Needless to say, the night hadn’t gone as expected and, even when he wanted to be upset at his untimely arrival, it made it worth it when he stepped past the threshold of her bedroom to see his girlfriend curled up in bed, her back turned toward the door. Was he dare going to speak up and make his presence known? While he wanted to, the element of surprise was all the craze. Unless she was sleeping, then he’d feel guilty for waking her; but, in his own defense, she did tell him that she’d be up when he came over. Clearly she hadn’t expected for it to be after midnight.

“If you think taking one step every minute means that I can’t hear you, you’re terribly mistaken.” Caught off-guard by the sass oozing into her tone, Owen stood still for a split second before scoffing quietly. His girlfriend had a bark, but it was much worse than her bite. He continued towards her bed and discarded his bag and jacket to the chest at the end of her bed. “Someone had a bad day,” he commented dryly. Grateful for the darkness that had invaded the bedroom, and the curtains that blocked streetlights from sneaking in, Claire rolled over onto her back and watched silently as he began to strip. It wasn't everyday he offered a strip tease without making her work for it first. Part of her wanted to know if he was going to ask what she was wearing beneath the sheets, if only to test that she was abiding by his request, while the other piece of her wasn’t going to dare mention it. “So, are you going to tell me what made your day so terrible?” 

The quiet, almost sinister laugh was all he needed to assume she’d dealt with her fair share of assholes throughout the day. Being a prosecutor wasn’t always the easiest job — her horror stories had proved that much — and it made Owen feel as if he didn’t have jurisdiction to complain about his own encounters. “Where should I start?” The family she was representing whose daughter had been killed in a hit and run and they were suing to ensure it wouldn’t happen to another innocent victim, or the woman who reminded her too much of Zara Young to fully function? Her thoughts were entangled in a blurry daydream as she felt him slip into bed beside her moments before he reached out to skim his warm touch across the expanse of her waist, her skin velvet to the touch. “How about,” he breathed against her shoulder, “you start at the beginning?” A smirk fell to his lips; he knew all too well that her day had started with  _him_. More specifically rough, haughty sex that left her sore and far too weak to move until he reminded her that they both needed to pull it together and get to work. The woes of being a lawyer; there was always someone who needed to be coddled. 

“The _last_ thing I want to discuss is how my day went, so let’s just breeze over that topic because it certainly doesn’t need an introduction.” Owen rolled his eyes easily as she sassed at his offer of venting, but ultimately he should've known better. In the months after Zara, Claire had changed her ways in every aspect where work was involved. If she had work to complete, she stayed late at the office instead of brining it home to work on, and once she crossed over the threshold, anything work related was a sore subject. Honestly, he hadn’t expected for it to last. Sure, he didn’t push talking about Zara’s case that ultimately dropped, letting Vic Hoskins off as a free man and Masrani Global to throw Owen a celebratory dinner for ultimately winning the case. But he hadn’t exactly expected Claire to shut down, change her direction, and quit discussing any and all aspects of work. Hell, duking it out in her living room as if they were at each other’s neck in the courtroom made for _blissful_ makeup sex. 

Claire made no offers at a mutual conversation and barely asked how his day had been, which only lead Owen to assume and always served him the raw end of the deal. “Well,” he huffed, sliding even closer, dipping his hand to feel across her waist. Was it a good sign that she wasn’t wearing an inch of clothing, or was it simply the fact that she wanted to obey the rules of the bedroom? “Claire Elizabeth, do not make me restrain you just so you’ll be forced to talk to me.” Owen tipped his head to look down at her as his lips shrunk at the corners, forming a gentle frown. “You’re really leaving me no choice here.” Left with unresolved feelings and the slight inkling that something really was wrong, he moved slowly to draw the sheets back as his pupils dilated at the first sight of her. Her pale skin contrasted against the dark grey sheets and offset the need to take her then and there; but he couldn’t. If there was one thing in the entire world (yet, among others) that he was against, it was skimming past her own feelings to indulge in his own. As he lifted himself to straddle her waist, locking her hips in a tight hold with his knees on either side, he leaned over and pressed the first of many kisses to her collarbone, her cheek, the tip of her nose.  _‘Talk to me’_  he desperately wanted to plead, but even Owen knew that asking her to talk wasn’t worth the battle he’d enrage inside her; Claire would speak up in her own time.  

Until then, Owen continued to pepper kisses along her skin, dipping between her breasts and lavishing attention to the dimples that adorned her throat. Did she realize that he only ever wanted her to feel the way he adored her with a love that some would name reckless? He couldn’t summon the energy to care about what others thought. He listened to the quiet purrs spilling from her lips and let the sounds guide him, eventually scooting backwards on the bed to enable kissing along her waist, and it wasn’t until he heard her whimper that he looked up. “Claire?” Expecting to see a tear skirting along her cheek, he spotted the simplest of smirks before her laughter filled the room, and confusion didn’t begin to explain the thoughts that filled his mind. “Are you going to explain why you’re laughing when I was under the impression that you were upset, or  _hurt_?” Claire could barely contain herself as she began to roll beneath him, thrashing from side to side as her chest contracted with joy. 

She stilled for a split second as his words registered, and she rested her hand on top of his gripped at her waist. “You thought I was  _hurt_?” How had he resulted with that conclusion? Worried that he would be upset if she admitted she was simply too tired to hold a conversation, Claire nudged at his knees that boxed her in until she was able to sit up to meet his lips, reaching out to hold his cheek gently. “You’re going to hate me, but I wasn’t any of the above, just tired. Oops?” She couldn't exactly explain why she hadn’t said a single thing before the moment of truth, but if it happened to be any consolation prize, she just wanted to be lavished with the care he put behind each and every touch, every kiss. Owen’s jaw gaped as he stared down at her, searching for the words to say, drawing a blank each time. 

Luckily for him, he didn’t need words to explain himself. Without speaking he leaned over to the bedside table and yanked the drawer open and shuffled blindly until he felt the chilled metal against his fingertips. “No, Owen! Tonight was supposed to be—“ he laughed quietly to himself and barely paid attention to his girlfriend who couldn’t find a way from between his legs, dangling the handcuffs from his grip as he used the key to unlock each side and motioned for her to raise both hands over her head despite the scowl on her features. It wasn’t that he didn’t care that she was raising hell, but, well, he didn’t care. 

Claire grumbled but eventually obliged to his demand, making sure she was in a comfortable position before she raised both hands towards the wooden headboard, a scowl resting firmly on her lips. “I hate you,” she hissed. Whether she hated him or not was not his biggest worry; there was a point where an insult coming from Claire would have stopped him dead in his tracks and coerced him to ask ‘why’. Now, after finally realizing that her hatred was a mark of adoration and not an insult in the slightest, Owen let her run her mouth in hope that she’d say something he could use against her at some point in the future. He especially enjoyed it when she buried herself six feet under; the one time she simultaneously pointed out the six weakest spots on her body that, when kissed, bitten, or otherwise lavished upon, made her submit easier than a snap of fingers.

After he’d secured the metal cuffs around her wrists and ensure they weren’t cutting off circulation or causing any chaffing, Owen leaned over her and traced a hand between their bodies, gliding over her inner thighs at a painstakingly slow pace as he pressed his lips to hers, happy to find that she was still responding in one way, and soon to be more. “Contrary to popular belief,” he began, kissing the tip of her nose, “I’m not going to fuck you until you’re seeing—what was it you said last night? That you were seeing rainbows?” Owen laughed and a snarl slipped from her gritted teeth, her scowl visible through the tears forming in his eyes. "Stop laughing!" She tried her best to throw him off, rocking from one side to the other, desperate to be out of his general vicinity. No one would ever understand how he simultaneously annoyed her and melted her to the core. She could guess it was because he disguised himself as an arrogant dick, but the jury was still deliberating on the verdict. 

"Well, if you aren't going to fuck me into next week, I'm not too interested in whatever you're offering." Wishing she could cross both arms over her chest, Claire clenched her legs together instead. As if that would stop him from trading her. As much as she wanted to deny it and try to convince him otherwise, Claire lived for the way he could so easily turn her on, teasing with merely a look. It reminded her of when they'd end up in the courthouse together, passing in the hallway on their way to separate meetings. All it took was a glance, a simple look in her direction for Claire to know she'd better prepare for the moment she stepped into her apartment; and sometimes he didn't even wait until then. It was one of the many perks to having a key to her apartment. 

Owen frowned and interrupted her thoughts with a gentle kiss to her temple before he reached out to brush his fingertips along her cheek. "Are you sure there isn't something on your mind?" Other than the fact that he just trampled the fantasy that had engulfed her. Until she decided to answer honestly, he reached up and slipped the key into the middle bar between the cuffs, letting the restraint release her from its grip. Claire whimpered from the loss of contact, the sudden whiplash of being jerked out of a submissive state, fucking with her mind. "I wanted to hear what you were offering," she claimed, mindlessly rubbing her thumb along her opposite wrist. Playing to his emotions, Owen tilted his head forward and kissed her sternum, shaking his head. "Not tonight," he breathed. He knew how to take a hint and, while he'd originally thought she was playing up the tendrils of sleep that'd latched onto her, Owen knew that her mind wasn’t in it. Honestly, he couldn’t argue with the hidden revelation, either. He knew when it was okay to push her, to nudge her closer to the edge. Hell, there were nights were crying was cathartic and Claire begged him to make it happen, and he obliged only to hold her close once she fell miles from the high and hit reality with a sharp snap. 

She wanted to fight his jurisdiction and beg to be touched, teased, and pleasured, but Claire knew that he’d all ready decided and was set on it. There were many things she could do to entice him into changing his mind, but on a night like this, she knew it was hopeless. Instead, she relaxed with his weight still hovering over her and closed her eyes, but she wasn’t expecting what came next. The way he gently nudged himself between her knees, kissing the soft skin before he moved further, elicited shivers to erupt across her body and took on a warning sensation in her core. It was sickening how one touch could suddenly melt her. “I want you to tell me where you want my lips,” he mumbled into her ivory skin, nipping gently at her inner thigh before he coaxed her to moan with light kisses that led a trail to her hip. He winced at the spotted blue and purple colors that mixed beneath her skin, causing a distorted galaxy to have spread across her waist. It was as if the were engulfed by the milky way that particular morning; he’d held her by the waist as she bent over the kitchen table, just tall enough that the corner touched her hip, which didn’t mix well with him thrusting into her, slamming her against the wood each time. But Claire had indulged in the concoction that the pain and pleasure injected into her veins; it was adrenaline, an endorphin of sorts that made her continue. 

As gentle as he could possibly be, Owen skimmed his lips across her waist, touching the middle of the galaxy before he continued on, glancing up at her momentarily, watching as her eyes drifted closed. Without another word, he settled next to her and pulled the sheet over his girlfriend, kissing her shoulder. They’d have an eternity to tease each other, but tonight he simply wanted to hold her.

* * *

 

As always, I owe everything to those of you who make up my raptor dream-team: @amelias-obsessions, @the-clawen-pamphlet, @cometothedarkside-x, @wonderrbat, @poeticandvaguelysweet, @senatorrorgana, @verxxotle, @cali-forniacationn, @endearing-claire, @firestarter91, @all--the--dancers, @batmansgirlwonder, @dealingdreams, @dinosaurswowenough, and I’m sure there are so many of you that I’m forgetting to tag, and I profusely apologize.


	7. Christmas Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas was never a holiday to be celebrated in the Dearing household during Claire’s childhood, but after marrying Owen -- a Christmas fanatic -- they come head-to-head on how they’ll celebrate the holiday with their children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, I never realized how terrible I can be at coming up with a summary on the spot. Anyways, this little idea came when @poeticandvaguelysweet sent me a horrendously sweet picture of two cuties wrapped up in Christmas onesies and I couldn’t help but to write something Christmas related for the Grady’s.So, here's something that I wrote based on The Space Between Us, except this is the Christmas edition. So, yeah. Enjoy! Merry Christmas? From, Me.

Claire had never been one to celebrate Christmas. Every year in their house growing up, Karen and Claire were left to their own devices as Norma Dearing worked the morning shift at the diner before switching roles for her night job at the hospital as a receptionist. Instead, while Karen and Claire cheered over the few gifts they were able to open, both kept in mind that it was likely a month’s worth of their mother’s wages from her various jobs. 

As they aged and grew into adulthood, nothing seemed to change. Claire and Norma baked the day away and they shifted to opening gifts in the evening, but by the time Karen had moved out and started a life of her own, Claire had decided that Christmas would forever be just another day of the year.

Until Owen came along. He shifted her entire world until she couldn't see which way the compass pointed north. For the first year of William's life they fought over the idea of Christmas each time it presented itself. Elise and Owen grew up in a house where Christmas wasn't just a day, it lasted for the entire month. From spending each weekend participating in a different activity, by the end of the season they were worn of eating butter-cream frosted sugar cookies and listening to Christmas carols. When life went back to normal and the lights were torn down from the gutters on the house, their parents would talk about it for another year. 

He simply couldn't understand why someone wouldn't want to celebrate the time of year that brought with it so much happiness and joy. Christmas wasn't all about gifts, but he could still see Elise's bright smile the very year she graduated from the nursing program and opened the box to the engraved stethoscope he bought her. Those were the memories that would never escape his mind, and for Claire to never be able to have shared those with her family stuck with him.

Just as if it were clockwork, Claire struck back with the same question every time.  _ ‘Why is it so important to you for our children to experience the holidays as you had?’   _ Without knowing what many called the ‘proper Christmas’, Claire never knew what she was missing — or  _ wasn’t _ missing. There was never a turkey to be carved; Karen and Claire usually ordered take out from the Chinese restaurant (the only place opened in the vicinity of downtown Chicago) around the corner from their house and protested the ever-popular Christmas movies. 

Despite the arguments they had, Claire wasn’t going to deny their children the enjoyment of experiencing Christmas the way they saw in the movies on TV or the books read to them at school. When William came running home from pre-school on the first day of December, proudly holding a calendar in one hand and was nothing but smiles, Claire knew it was time to address the dark cloud that lingered in their house. 

Except for the fact that there never seemed to be a  _ right time _ when admitting defeat. With two children and beyond hectic schedules, it seemed the only time they had to talk was when they finally laid down in bed at night, and even then it was never promised. 

“Tell me you’re still awake,” Owen whispered and reached out into the darkness when his eyes took longer to adjust to the room. He didn’t exactly want to wake his wife, but when she didn’t answer, a sigh slipped through his lips. “Claire, we need to talk about this.” 

She silently begged for her subconscious to allow her to stay quiet and not intrude on the silent fight that continued to hang between them; it wouldn’t be fair, the onslaught of hypocrisy that would unfold. Claire wanted them to raise their children in a house that believed in faith, trust, and pixie dust, minus a religious view behind the meaning of  _ faith _ . Yet, explaining that to Owen seemed like an absurd amount of work when she knew her husband would be against her from the beginning. Instead, he was persistent and Claire knew he wouldn't let her sleep until she answered him. With her eyes sealed shut she groaned in response, suddenly feeling the weight of sleep lifting from her shoulders.

“Of course I’m still awake, I can’t sleep when you’re staring at me like you do Echo when she’s done something terrible.” Claire couldn’t help but laugh only to come to a screeching halt when he didn’t return the favor. “What do you want to talk about?” 

It was Owen’s turn to groan, except this time he pulled his hand back from her shoulder and turned onto his back to stare up to the ceiling. He would never understand why they had to fight on every major decision in their marriage; it seemed useless when he knew she’d win in the long run, or her reasoning would suddenly appear to make the clouds shift and the sun would shine again. But when it came to their kids — when it came to the  _ family _ they shifted planets to create — he wouldn’t settle to give Will and Harper the stars in the sky; he wanted galaxies for their precious children. “I don't want to fight about this, Claire, but Will and Harper and getting old enough to understand what the holidays are about and Will is asking why  _ we  _ don’t have a Christmas tree in our house like they do in the classroom, never mind the bakery. What kind of message do you think it sends to our children to see  _ your shop _ decorated, but their home isn’t?” 

The moment the words parted his lips Owen felt her recoil into the shell that restricted any entrance from the outside world, and that where words had been harmless before were now cloaked in poison, a sword to the gut.

“Our son is  _ five _ , and he’s naturally curious. Harper hasn’t turned two, she could honestly care less about a  _ pine tree _ that sits in our living room for a month before it’s rotting enough to be thrown on the side of the curb. She’s more concerned with the glittery princess paper that Elise sends her gifts wrapped in and how quickly she can tear it off the presents, so don’t feed me that bullshit.” When she was done barking orders, Claire lifted a hand and pressed it to her chest, feeling the anger swelling beneath her skin. There were few pieces of her childhood that she hung on to, but fiercely protecting the yearly tradition she shared with Karen was something she would never let anyone else touch, not even her husband. “And while we’re on the topic, I just want to remind you that I never came from a family that had money to spend on Christmas; my mother barely made enough to put food on the table and keep a roof over our heads, so Christmas to us wasn’t about a fancy meal and outdoing your neighbors in the size of the goddamn turkey put on the table.” Her words may have silenced but the moment she paused Claire pushed herself over in bed, putting a mile of distance between them, and rolled onto her side. 

Owen knew everything about his wife, from where the stars collected on her hip in the form of a small patch of freckles to the spot on her lower back where the surgery was done to remove the bullet, which felt like a century before. He could tell with a single look the days when she fought against her toughest fears and others when the pain was a bit overwhelming. Even though he felt he knew Claire better than anyone else either had in their lives, he would never be able to lay claim to knowing what she kept from him, and the thoughts that lingered beneath the surface of her mind. 

“Claire, please, don’t be like—”

“Like  _ what _ , Owen? You asked me why I didn’t want to celebrate Christmas and I told you. I told you that I didn’t have the childhood that you had, and that celebrating a holiday that is clothed in gifts and that has lost its true meaning isn’t something I want to be a part of. And while we’re at it, don’t you  _ dare _ bring up the shop; you know for a fact that I have to push the holiday agenda or else I will  _ never _ be able to compete with the other small-town bakeries, so it isn’t fair to me—”

“—it isn’t  _ fair _ to you? That’s a new one, Claire, because last time I checked it isn’t  _ fair _ to hold out on our children, either. Isn’t that what you’re doing?” 

“You act like our children are being deprived of nourishment or they don’t have a warm place to rest their head at night, Owen. And they have gifts to open on Christmas morning, so I don’t see the big deal in not having a tree in our living room to sit around. Plus, it’s a fire hazard.” Instead of reasoning like an actual adult, Claire felt like she was grappling at any and every excuse to not celebrate the holidays as he had growing up. 

In the dark anonymity of the room, Owen felt it was safe to roll his eyes, even if he knew his wife would  _ know;  _ with Will she always claimed to have eyes in the back of her head, and for all he knew she had some way of detecting his silent sarcasm, too. “I’m sorry, Claire, but it’s an ongoing fight. Every single year we talk about the same thing, and the first year that we were able to spoil Will, we did, and I thought each year after that it would get better, that we would learn to cope with Henry’s—” 

Despite telling himself to shut his up or forcing a hand to cover his mouth, Owen knew the moment the name left his lips that there was no coming back from the line that was crossed. It was the way she drew both elbows to her sides to cage in her lungs, something of a comfort technique, that had him pushing off the side of the bed and fleeing for the bedroom door, leaving Claire to quake in the reminder of their son. 

{…}

_ Claire, _

_ Ran to the grocery store, apparently we’re out of milk, and I had to leave this lame ass note because my phone was dead when I woke up. _

_ Love you xx _

_ P.S. I have the munchkins, so don’t panic _

The first thing Claire reached for when she rolled over that morning was the warmth of the body that was usually beside her, but when she found his side of the bed to be empty and hunted her way to the kitchen purely from the smell of freshly made coffee, the note left in his chicken scratch waited on the kitchen counter. 

Any other morning — a morning that didn’t follow a night of arguing and falling asleep to cascading tears — Claire would be thrilled for some quiet time to allow her brain to break from the fog holding her down before she walked into the role of being a mother to their adorable children. But after worrying about how Will and Harper would grow up  without knowing what a  _ real  _ Christmas could be like, and forcing herself to taking a sleep aid to calm her racing mind, she needed her children to be around, to hug her and tell her how much they loved her and ask Claire to kiss their toes because they were so cold. 

Saturday mornings were restricted for family time; it was the one day of the week Owen was promised he wouldn’t be called in for a case, and Claire scheduled time away from the bakery where she could be promised that Alissa wouldn’t let it burn down. Instead of spending the morning with their children laughing, she sipped on a lukewarm cup of coffee as she stood in the center of the kitchen and wondered if they would grow to hate her when they were old enough and began to realize that other families celebrated Christmas more elaborately. 

Now, in the middle of an empty house, Claire had two options. On one hand, she could wait for her husband to bring their kids home so she could wrap Harper in a crushing hug and  _ maybe  _ the rambunctious girl would want to curl up at some point for a nap. Or she could leave for the bakery, surprise Alissa with some much-needed help, and let Owen deal with the children and what came with it; lunch, naps, and post-nap attitude.

There wasn’t time to make a decision as she heard the garage door clank open and a scowl formed on her features. How many times had she asked Owen to fix that? The worst part was that she could predict what his answer would be,  _ ‘When did you ask me to fix that? _ ’ 

Everything skipped her mind when she saw her smallest ray of sunshine enter in past the threshold carrying a small stuffed animal in her arms, although Claire couldn’t distinguish what exactly the animal was. She dropped to kneel on both knees and wrapped her arms around Harper and pulled her close to her chest. There was something so calming about her children, but especially when she could hold them close.

Harper began to squirm when Claire held on for a moment too long, her small hands pushing at Claire’s chest. “Mama!” When Claire didn’t seem to listen and Harper’s giggles grew louder, the tiny blonde haired girl thrusted the plush in between their bodies and pretended for the penguin to ‘kiss’ her mother. “Look what Daddy bought for us! Wu got a r’deer, too!” Proudly displaying the small stuffed animal that she desperately wanted approval for choosing, it wasn’t long before she realized she no longer had her mother’s attention and scooted to the side to bug Will, bopping his reindeer on the head with the penguin’s beak. 

“You took them to the  _ mall _ ?” Claire growled under her breath and took a moment to scoff when she watched Owen roll his eyes. Of course he took them to the mall; he’d fucked up the night before and now he was clearly working to make her mad  _ again _ . In all honestly, Claire wasn’t even sure she was over the night before. 

Gently she urged William and Harper into the living room with the promise of pancakes for breakfast, only to have their son ruin the secret that they had McDonald’s biscuits earlier that morning. 

“So, clearly you’re trying to give me an aneurysm,” she tried to hide the tempting smile the moment she forced him against the counter in the kitchen, keeping her back turned towards the kids so they wouldn't witness the way her features contorted into anger directed at Owen. “At what part between leaving our bedroom last night and deciding to take the children to the mall this early in the morning did you lose your mind?” Claire hissed and didn’t miss the way he flinched at the break in her voice. He had to have known that she’d want to spend the morning with the kids curled up in their bed, to have breakfast in together as a family; all the things they normally did on a Saturday morning. 

“Come on, Claire,” Owen tried his best to push forward somewhat of a smile while still standing his ground. As if he wasn’t allowed to be upset? His wife, the woman he’d been head over heels in love with since shortly after they met, had managed to keep this part of her hidden. Sure, he’d seen bits and pieces of it, but for the first few years of William and Harper’s lives, Christmas was more about spoiling them with presents than decorating the house in everything that fell into three categories: green, red, and glittery. Plus, there was no need for a Christmas tree when they had traveled to Chicago every year since Will’s birth to spend Christmas with his family.

Instead, now was the first year he mentioned getting more into decorating when their family came into town because god forbid their house look like they were celebrating a holiday rather than mourning the dead.

She couldn’t stop herself from laughing, a short, stifled noise that slipped past her lips all while he continued to stare at her like her head was on backwards. “Why is this suddenly  _ my _ fault, Owen? I’ve told you at least ten times that I don’t see—”

“Cut the bullshit, Claire,” Owen passed a quick glance over her shoulder to peek into the living room, watching Harper and Will both sitting on the couch, their attention drawn to the cartoons turned on the TV instead of their bickering parents. “I know what this is about, and instead of hiding the truth, why don’t you just tell me? Just tell me that you don’t want to put up a tree because—”

“Henry  _ died  _ this time of the year and you’re just acting like nothing has happened! Every single year you have remembered that we wake up together and we have a quiet breakfast together. And every goddamn year we’ve said that it would be the year that we go to the goddamn cemetery, but not because he actually has a grave there, no. It’s what we do, Owen, and it’s like all of a sudden you’ve forgotten. Or maybe you just don’t care anymore. Is it because that’s  _ my _ burden to bear? You have your two  _ perfect _ children, so Henry doesn’t matter?” Once she started there was not a chance in hell that Claire could stop herself, not until her shoulders shook with each sob that ravaged through her lungs and escaped swollen lips. 

For Owen to admit he was stunned was the understatement of their marriage. Here he was assuming she’d say that since money was tight when she was younger, the lack of a pine tree in their living room to put a mere couple of presents under wasn’t  _ needed _ . Or, the money spent on a tree was also enough to put food on the table for a few nights, and it was clearly more important to her mom. 

Never had he guessed that his wife would throw the death of their  _ newborn _ in his face. She had every right to be upset, that he’d  _ accepted _ , but he wouldn’t stand there and listen to the reasons why Christmas was suddenly his fault. Instead, Owen tried to tune her out and focused on her features; the smile he adored, and the pearl earrings she wore ever since she opened them on the first wedding anniversary.

Instead of keeping his attention narrowed on Claire, he couldn’t help but to notice sight of their daughter in the corner of the living room, her head buried in the plastic tub that normally housed Will’s legos while she stood on her tiptoes, pushing herself further into the bucket that was nearly as tall as she was. All of a sudden everything hit him like a storm, the calm now over, and he pulled away from Claire and growled their daughter’s name.

“Harper, get out of the basket!” He knew the danger the toddler could get into when they had their backs turned for a moment, and it didn’t help that Claire had been on his case since they’d arrived home minutes before. Instead of acting like a reasonable,  _ responsible  _ parent, he snatched the plastic piece from her hand just as the grenade exploded in their living room. Harper fell to her knees and her screams drowned out Will as he complained that she took  _ another _ piece to his set, all while Owen continued to chastise the little girl. 

Claire had seen enough; her husband turned into someone she hardly recognized and she wouldn’t let it impact their children, too. She cursed beneath her breath and rushed in to grab Harper in a heated race to pull her from the range of Owen’s screams. “Do  _ not _ yell at her,” Claire growled sharply, spitting the words at her husband. “This is why we aren’t having Christmas, because the only damn thing you  _ ever  _ buy Will are Legos when clearly he has enough.” Past the point of caring, she pulled Harper in close and kissed at her cheeks as the young girl continued to howl, ‘daddy’ slipping past her lips every few words as proof to how apologetic she could be. 

The mention of not having Christmas — and in Will’s young eyes, Christmas being  _ canceled _ — were enough to create havoc between the two children as their eyes reddened and howling cries escaped them both. Even the comfort of  being in her mother’s arms wasn’t enough to comfort Harper as her sobs filled the minimal space between her and her mother’s warmth. 

“Look what you did, Owen,” Claire hissed, her gaze narrowing in on him. “What a great way to try and bring everyone together for the holidays, isn’t it?” With her daughter held tight to her chest, Claire started down the hallway towards their bedroom and left her husband to clean up the mess he’d caused. 

{…}

“What do you mean Christmas is  _ canceled _ ?” Karen kept her voice low despite the wavering in her tone, suddenly afraid that her sister had jumped off the deep end. She would have never said it before, but after the accident, and losing Henry, Claire had  _ changed;  _ and not necessarily for the better. 

Sure, just like any other person who went through such a traumatic experience, Karen understood that it took time to heal, but in her eyes the way to do it wasn’t by hiding those feelings under the guilt of having two children who would  _ never  _ be Henry. 

Claire sighed and inhaled deeply while trying far too hard to calm her racing heart. After the shit-show of a morning they had huddled in the living room, it had been hours since she saw Owen walk out of the house. Sure, she knew he was still around when his truck didn’t leave their driveway, but as far as spending the day together, that hope was long gone. 

Instead, she busied herself with cleaning the house, something she did most Saturdays, and called Alissa to let her know she wouldn’t be in later in the afternoon, and it was okay to close an hour early, if she needed to be somewhere.

“I mean that I have zero desire to celebrate it. The entire season is just ridiculous, and I  _ know _ you feel differently, but I don’t, Karen. I don’t want my kids to grow up spoiled rotten and—”

It was Karen’s turn to sigh, laughter slipping between her words. “This is because of Owen, isn’t it? It’s because he had Christmas growing up, and we had hot chocolate while curled on the couch, trying on gloves and scarves, the only two things Mom could buy for cheap.” 

She didn’t want to admit that she was jealous of her husband’s upbringing and his parent’s ability to give him and Elise everything they could ever dream of needing. Her husband was spoiled with love, gifts at Christmas, and never had to worry of not having enough money or if the electricity would be turned off. But for Claire, even though she was young and Karen and her mother tried to shelter her from it, she still understood that their mother worked so they could have food on the table and a roof over their heads at night, and she never took that for granted. 

“Listen,” Karen started before Claire could interject with hurt feelings and zero desire to listen to anything her sister had to say, “I know you’re mad at him, and I’m sure you don’t want to see eye-to-eye, but you have to. You have to make this work, if not for your marriage, but for Will and Harper. Do you remember what it felt like to go to school after winter break and all the other kids were talking about what they got for Christmas and you sat there in the back with your mouth shut because you didn’t want to talk about the gloves that were too big, or the Polly Pocket you got when you were  _ thirteen _ because it was on the clearance rack and Mom thought it would make a cute gift. This isn’t about  _ spoiling _ your children, this is about giving them what you never had.” 

Claire knew her sister was right; when wasn’t Karen right? Growing up, she had been the stand-in mother, and when their mother died, she slid effortlessly into the role. 

She stood against the counter with the phone glued to her ear, watching as the kids sat on the couch and silently watched cartoons after settling down from the disastrous morning. Instead of answering in actual words that would please her sister, Claire hummed along and rolled her eyes when Karen chastised her for merely agreeing for the sake of avoiding an argument. 

“Just consider seeing things from Owen’s perspective, please? I don’t want to hear that you’re spending the holidays cooped up at work when you could be home with your family. I love you too much to see you miss out on everything…” 

Despite wanting to end the conversation that was heading south at an astronomical pace, Claire didn’t have the heart to hang up the phone when there was tension lingering between them. “I know you’re right, Karen, I’m just…” she looked towards their children, the two healthy,  _ happy _ , beautiful kids she and Owen created a family with, but she still felt there was a piece missing. 

_ Henry.  _

“What is it, Claire?” She heard the heartbreak in her sister’s voice and couldn’t help but feel the pang ripping through her chest. She’d never lost a child, but couldn’t imagine what she would do without Gray and Zach not being a part of her world. “Claire-Bear, are you still there?” 

The moment Claire looked up to see her husband entering the house, his hands greased with what looked like black tar and a towel draped over his shoulder, the tears formed behind her eyes. This wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair to their kids or family, and most of all it wasn’t fair to  _ Owen. _ “It was never his fault,” she whispered into the phone, followed by a quick goodbye and she would call later, all while her husband kept walking towards her. 

“Claire,” Owen kept his voice soft, not to spook the kids who seemed to have calmed down since he was last inside the house or his wife who looked like a deer caught in headlights. Earlier, after Claire had stormed off, Owen tried his best to reassure Will that Christmas was  _ not _ canceled, and much to his dismay their son hardly believed a word he said before running towards his bedroom with the promise that Santa wouldn’t bring presents because “ _ You and Mama are being naughty!”  _

“It wasn’t you,” she whispered in a rushed breath as the took a step back, banging a hip against the corner of the cabinet, wincing when the pain crossed her features. “It was me who was trying to control our holidays, and I ruined them.”

“Ah, no, you didn’t ruin anything, Claire…” Owen was desperate to curl his hand around her waist, or to capture her wrist only to draw her close to his chest. His wife was strong, and resilient, but he wasn’t confident in the ideas that slipped into her mind at the realization that she was at the center of the tightly-strung tension. Instead, he settled for standing nearest to her that he could slide his hand across the counter top, touching her fingertips with his own. 

He couldn’t help but be curious at what was said between the two sisters while on the phone, but Owen also knew just how harsh Karen could be even when she was trying to give sisterly — and often  _ motherly _ — advice to her younger sister. One look at Claire and he could tell she was mere moments from shattering to pieces, and now wasn’t the time he wanted to see her suffer from the inability to reign in her stubbornness. He closed the gap between them and easily slid his hands to the back of her thighs, lifting her to sit on the counter with ease. As much as laying in bed would be preferred, it would only be a matter of time before their children got into trouble. 

“Look at me,” he breathed, searching her features for the chance to make this right, to bring them together for the holidays instead of pushing them farther away. “Babe,” he urged, lifting a hand to her chin, turning her head to look in his direction, “I  _ need _ for you to talk to me, because I’m not a mind reader, and I don’t know what you’re thinking. I  _ need _ you to let me in far enough to help heal the missing pieces.” 

“There is no healing this, Owen, because Karen was right. I had no business getting pregnant when I was already down for the count and—”

Owen clenched his jaw into a narrow line as the veins in his neck began to bulge. This was  _ Karen’s  _ doing? The entire fight started because of something said to Claire by her  _ sister,  _ and Owen couldn’t get the image of Henry out of his mind; their stillborn son who stole their hearts like a thief in the night. “Listen to me,” he leaned in close and pressed his lips against her temple, holding quietly for a moment before he trailed to her forehead, the tip of her nose, and chin, pressing a gentle kiss to each new patch of skin. “There is nothing that I can say to make that pain go away, but I want you to remember that losing Henry brought us Will and Harper, and even though nothing can replace Henry in your heart, you can take comfort from having our babies to hold at night.” 

“I need to go somewhere with you.”

“Anywhere for you, babe.” 

{…}

When Owen had said  _ anywhere _ , Claire didn’t except that he’d want to leave the kids with Penny, their next door neighbor, and take a stroll down memory lane. She hadn’t expected for him to love her after being shot in the spine either, but here they were. 

They strolled hand in hand past the iron gate that had rusted at the hinges over the past year, Owen squeezed her hand when he felt her shiver as the cool breeze brushed over the nape of her exposed neck, chilling Claire to the bone. “Are you sure you want to do this? I mean, if you don’t, I can—”

Owen stopped firm in his tracks and turned toward his wife, reaching for her other hand.  For a moment he stood quietly and merely stared down at her aged hands that told of the bread she kneaded on a daily basis and the two children they were raising, and busied himself with rubbing a soft pattern across her knuckles. “I  _ want  _ to be here with you, and not just because this is something you shouldn’t have to do alone. I’m here because I’m your  _ husband,  _ and you should never have to face this on your own _. _ ”

To say she appreciated her husband and the effort he was exerting was quite the understatement of the year. Claire loved him and had since the night they met, even if she hadn’t known it at the time, and when they needed each other the most they both pulled through. 

The walk to the grave site was painful with each quiet step they took, walking hand-in-hand, not daring to drop the lifeline the other offered. When they reached the small brick with his name inscribed into the rough surface, Claire kneeled down on the cold ground and pressed a single hand to the faded crimson brick. 

“Have you ever thought what our lives would be like if we had Henry, too?” Claire peered across the cemetery at the parallel lines of headstones, old and new, wondering what they would’ve chosen for their son had they not cremated him. At the time, Claire wasn’t with a right mind and had begged Owen to take care of the specifics, never realizing how it would affect them to not have a permanent place to visit their son, but yet now had a brick with his name and birthdate scripted across the top. “You know, if we had three kids. Don’t you ever think about that?” 

“—I try not to,” Owen swallowed thickly as his throat constricted with the emotion that threatened to spill over. “I try not to think about Henry because I can’t stop the pain that surfaces. I can’t stop the images that flood my mind, how little he was in your arms, and how your tears never stopped. Then I just start to think about the days following when you were released and how much time you spent sobbing in bed, and how I felt helpless to you. I didn’t know how to heal that pain, Claire, and I still don’t. And sometimes it’s easier to just push those feelings away than to let them rise and seep back into our lives.” 

Claire could only nod her head as she tried to stop the tears, and clenched her eyes shut only to see Henry’s tiny face in her mind. For months after his death she wondered why it was so easy to recall him into memory when she  _ prayed _ that he be taken away from her. She wanted nothing more than to wake up after a long night’s sleep with only the faintest sadness to linger; she would’ve been happy if the memory of him had been erased completely. Instead they weren’t allowed to pick and choose the pieces of him that remained ingrained into their memory. 

Ever since the day he was taken away from them Claire had found someone to blame. Eventually she came to terms with his death and the realization that he would never be brought back, and at some point they moved on in their marriage and quest to build a life together, but she never stopped to appreciate the fact that Owen had lost a son that day, too. That she couldn’t be selfish with the holidays for the reason of not wanting to celebrate because they’d lost Henry, even though there were other reasons she didn’t want to participate. 

“I was so excited that Christmas,” she looked down at the ground and slowly pulled her hand from his, only to stand up and shove both hands into her coat pockets. “That year was almost magical, for lack of a better word. I was  _ so _ pregnant that Christmas, and I remember hoping that maybe the due date was wrong and we would have a New Year’s baby, even though I knew I was being naïve.” Claire kept her gaze pointed at the ground and alternated between watching the dead leaves stir and Owen’s feet as he shifted back and forth between the two. “After everything we went through together, Henry was going to be our saving grace. He was going to be the reason that we fought so hard, and he would have been the piece of the puzzle. I swore on my mom’s grave that after he was born, I would say goodbye to the accident. I would pack up that piece of my live —  _ our  _ lives — and I would solely focus on the future. But when we lost him—”

“You felt like you were still being punished for it?” 

Claire nodded as the tears slipped past the threshold and fell onto her pale cheeks and she couldn’t help but to instantly step into his embrace, resting her head against his chest. “I feel like we’re still being punished for it. That, ever since I went against what  _ you _ wanted for me, the world has set its sight on me and won’t give up until something happens again.” 

“We wouldn’t have Will and Harper, you know.” He pressed his lips to the crown of her head, inhaling the faded honey scent that lingered in her hair after her shower the night. When Claire didn’t respond nor demand that he stop talking, Owen continued. “If we had Henry, we wouldn’t have our two spunky, disastrous children. We wouldn’t appreciate how hard we had to fight for them, and maybe in some other life having our three children would be great, but I don’t want to  _ regret _ them, either. Because Will and Harper are by far the best things that have happened to you and I.” He only paused to pull back and glanced down at Claire, lifting a hand from her back to wipe at the fallen tears. 

“Owen, I’m—” 

“Ah, ah, ah,” he gathered her frozen hands between his own without taking his eyes away from her features. “I don’t need you to apologize to me again, because I’m not upset with you. I just…I  _ need _ to understand. So let’s go back to  _ our _ house and talk this out, yeah?”

Claire found herself glancing up at him and nodding, despite feeling nothing but love for the man who would never let her down, and knew this would finally be their chance to break past the barriers chained to their hearts. 

{…}

The weeks that led up to Christmas were filled with a holiday buzz that Claire had never experienced in her life, which she found to be the slightest bit overwhelming. Maybe it was the hoopla that surrounded the holidays and all the preparations that needed to be made, but it certainly didn’t help when Owen announced that his family would be flying in to spend it with them. 

Claire felt the onslaught of pressure more than she could describe; not only did she have her shop to think of in terms of decorating and the amount of baked goods that would pass through the doors, but she also had to consider what would be put up at home. 

It wasn’t long after their trip to the cemetery that the hurt buried ten feet under was dealt with, and only in the way Claire and Owen could come to terms with. After a fierce battle of rock, paper, scissors did Owen win. Winning meant he was allowed to choose  _ what _ decorations were placed in the house, but Claire still placed her stamp of approval on each piece.  

“What do you mean we only have  _ twelve hours _ until Morgan and Elise are here?” She rolled over in bed toward her husband and rested her hand against his chest, clawing softly at his shoulder. “Tell me you’re lying. Tell me that Christmas really isn’t one day away and tell me that the presents that have suddenly  _ filled _ our closet are going to wrap themselves.” 

While Christmas continued to seemingly creep up on them overnight, the house hardly looked as if they were even celebrating the holiday. The bakery was in high demand and caused Claire to spend more time away from home in the weeks that led up to Christmas Eve and, much to Will and Harper’s dismay, would take her away on the night that Santa would appear. 

“If you wouldn’t have woken up at  _ five-thirty _ , we wouldn’t have to fuss over what we’re going to do with ourselves until my sister and her wife get here.” Owen laughed quietly and pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Anyways, you’re going into work and I’m going to decorate—”

“You’re not  _ decorating _ , you’re putting up an artificial tree that is going to have lights and bulbs on it. That’s it,  _ right _ ?” 

It was the terms of their agreement that Claire desperately needed him to agree with. ‘ _ Baby steps’, _ she’d told him when they discussed how they would handle the upcoming holiday, especially in terms of what they would tell the kids; Claire didn’t want to confuse Will more than he already seemed to be. Instead, they came to a compromise; a tree put up in the living room, decked with lights and garland, silver balls, the necessities of what any Christmas tree needed. 

A subtle smirk settled on his lips and he leaned in closer, wrapping an arm around her waist. “How about,” his lips met the shell of her ear and he snuck a hand beneath her nightshirt, tracing a wavering line along the waistline of her underwear, “you go to work and leave the decorating up to me?” Owen pulled away before she could reach over to smack him and fled the bed within seconds. Although he’d stopped sleeping nude since the kids started walking, it didn’t stop her attention from wandering to the obvious  _ release _ he needed. 

Miffed that her plan to trick him into feisty morning sex didn’t exactly work, Claire rolled to the edge of the bed and pushed herself to stand, glancing back at Owen who had already proceeded to the closet to pull on a sweatshirt. “You know, I hate that you turn me on so easily,” she cringed at her own words and stepped around the side of the bed and into the bathroom, “but it’s only because I love you. Remember that.” 

She ignored him for the majority of her morning routine, thankful when he left the bedroom to tend to Will and Harper who had snuck into the living-room, much to Claire’s dismay. They’d told Will a hundred times over that he wasn’t to help Harper out of bed, and every time he insisted that being in the living room by himself was lonely. She continued to get ready in the comfortable silence that only an empty bedroom could offer, thankful when she stepped out to realize that all three were quietly sitting on the couch munching away on breakfast. 

Claire walked towards them just as she pushed the last button on her blouse through its corresponding hole and smiled down at Harper as she called out for her mom. “Bye my little love-bug,” she didn’t hesitate to reach down and pluck Harper from the warm cocoon Owen had wrapped her in, lifting her high until she could deliver a round of noisy raspberries to her daughter’s plump cheeks. By the time Harper’s infectious laughter ended, Will had begged for the same treatment — which Owen obliged to — and she was already twenty minutes late getting out the door. 

An hour later — thanks to the rush-hour traffic on the Subway — Claire finally reached the bakery and was met with an onslaught of angry customers who had nothing better to do than damper the creeping hint of Christmas spirit. Along with Alissa, they tried their best to satisfy each loyal patron who came in to pick up the pre-designed cakes, party trays, and delicious buckeyes — an ode to her mother’s favorite holiday treat. 

At the end of the day, when her feet were swollen and her head felt like it was going to explode from the sudden lack of commotion in the bakery, Claire sent Alissa home early to spend the rest of the weekend with her children and wife, more grateful than ever for her help. Once she was alone in the building, she took a moment and leaned against the counter and wiped beneath her eyes, sure she’d gotten flour in them. 

“Tell me my beautiful wife isn’t crying on Christmas Eve…”

She screeched and jumped a foot in the air before she was able to turn around to glare at Owen, a world of obscene words passing her mind as she stared blankly at him.

“The k—”

He smiled, “are with Elise and Morgan, spending time with Sarah and Gemma while they all watch  _ Lilo and Stitch, _ so they’re perfectly fine. You however…” He didn’t need an invitation to move toward his wife, reaching for her the moment he was close enough to extend his grip around her waist. Owen took his time as he lifted a hand to her cheek, brushing his fingertips beneath her eyes to capture the few tears. “Are you going to tell me why you’re crying, or are you going to make me guess?” 

As much as Claire wanted to tell him and confide in her husband who had never given her a reason not to trust him, there was a piece of her heart that she wanted to hold captive out of his reach. They weren’t at a place where they had to keep secrets, but damn if she wanted to. 

While he waited and gave her the time she clearly needed, he gently reached around and untied the apron she wore, letting each ribbon fall to either side of her waist. “Claire,” he whispered quietly and leaned in to kiss her forehead as he slid the neck-piece over her head before he balled the material up and pressed it to the counter. “I need you to talk to me, babe. As much as I want to, I can’t read your mind.” 

There were bits and pieces of their life together that Claire had wished she could pack up and move to the attic, never to have to view again, and even if she was desperate to follow through, she knew it would never be that way. “I’ve been terrible to you for  _ weeks _ , and if I would’ve just opened up, if I would’ve told you how I was feeling rather than try and shut you out, this could’ve been solved. We wouldn’t have been sleeping on opposite sides of the house despite being tucked into the same bed.” 

The guilt was eating her alive, that little he knew, with the worst part being that Owen had not a single clue how to stop it. There were only so many times he could reassure her that he wasn’t hurt by her actions and that, once he understood, it all made perfect sense. He kissed the side of her head with a quiet whisper that he would find a way to make it better before he gripped her waist and lifted her onto the counter despite flour covering most of the black and grey marble. 

“We can’t have sex on the counter, Owen…” Her teary voice quietly crept into the space between them and caused an abrupt laugh to part his lips. 

He couldn’t exactly claim that he was surprised at the sudden jump in conversation, but the moment that he peered up at her from behind heavy lids, he realized she was all too serious, if even just a bit of a smile hinted at the corner of her lips. “Oh babe,” he shook his head and smiled, “I wasn’t going to suggest it, but now that I know where your mind is at…” 

Silence lingered between them as he stepped between her thighs and felt her legs link around him. There were some emotions that words couldn't express, and he wanted to soak in the feeling of them finding their way back to each other after having it out for the other during the season. Owen brushed a fallen strand of hair behind her ear before he cradled her cheek in the palm of his hand, sweeping his thumb under her eye before the swelling deep inside his chest caused him to speak. “I just want you to know that I’m here for you. We’re in this for the long haul, and if that means that I need to step up my telepathy skills, then I’ll do it for you. Because at the end of the day, I don’t want you to feel like you have to hide your feelings for the sake of mine.” 

“I don’t deserve you, you know that, right? I have done nothing in life to deserve your kindness and your ability to love me unconditionally.” Claire pressed her fingers against his mouth the moment his lips parted to speak. “I’m not saying that to be self-deprecating or to give us a reason to argue about who deserves the other the most, but when we met I was just a girl living in a big city, baking desserts to pay off loans, and you swooped in and knew that I was going to need someone to stand beside me. I needed to be saved and—”

Abruptly spurred on by the deep desire to hush his wife, Owen leaned in and captured her in a gentle kiss, holding her close with a hand at the small of her back. “I need you to listen to me,” he breathed against her lips, not bothering to pull away as he kissed her between words. “There will not be a single day that I’m not going to be here for you. I may be mad, or I’ll do something to piss you off, but there will not be a time where I will not open my arms for you to curl up in, do you hear me?” 

For several seconds she alternated between staring at him and glancing down at his hands that rested on her knees without a single thought coming to mind. “I want to say something, but I know that if I try and fight what  _ you _ said, you’re just going to give me a damn good reason to shut up.” A smirk appeared as Claire lifted her gaze to peer over his shoulder — as if they were expecting anyone else. “In that case…” 

She wasn’t exactly subtle in her hints, but when she reached forward and started for his belt Owen couldn’t help when he pulled back with a startled yelp. It wasn’t enough to simply knock her hands away, but when Claire gasped in mock horror when he turned her down, all she could do was laugh.

“Never did I think I’d live to see a day where you turn down having sex, Owen…” She waited a moment to see the lightbulb of recognition flash in his eyes before she leaned in and rested both hands at his waist, glancing up to see the lust in his eyes. With two children, it was a no-brainer that sex wasn’t exactly the first thing on the docket despite not going more than a day or so without thinking about pinning him against the wall and having her way with her husband. 

“Maybe I’m not turning down sex as much as making you  _ wait. _ ” The huskier drop in his voice caught Claire’s attention and she pushed on to unbutton his jeans. What she didn’t know was that Owen was willing and able to give her what she wanted; Elise had even given him ‘ _ the talk _ ’ as he left the house. His sister always had a way of knowing when he and his wife needed to spend more time together, and tonight was certainly one of them. 

There weren’t many words exchanged as Claire fumbled with the zipper of his pants and his lips fell to her neck, kissing any inch of skin he was allowed for. He scraped his teeth across her collarbone as his hands fell to her waist and he began tugging on the hem of her shirt, a cue for Claire to lift her arms. As she followed suit, he pulled back for a split second before he began to trail his lips across her chest. 

Claire, on the other hand, didn’t display the self control that Owen had. Instead of taking a slow ease into teasing him, she pushed at the material bunched low around his waist and smirked as his jeans and boxers fell to his knees, freeing his nearly painful erection.  Gently, she glided her hand over his shaft and listened as his breathing changed course, turning into short, shallow breaths as she quickened the pace her hand moved. 

Her name parted his lips in a breathy groan as Owen leaned closer, bracing his hands against the edge of counter as his mouth fell open against her chest. “Claire,” he repeated, slowly shaking his head as he struggled to speak. “I want  _ you _ , even if your hand jobs are gold.” 

Although she knew he wanted her, it was nice to be reminded by the way he grabbed for her, his fingers greedy to touch any inch of her olive skin. Claire took in stride what his words meant and dropped her hands for a moment, only to give him enough time to unbutton her skirt before he began pulling away at the material, stopped by the constraint of the countertop.

“Damn you, woman, why must you insist on wearing leggings  _ too _ ?” His gentle laughter washed over her as a calming noise in the midst of the hoopla of the holiday rush. Before Owen could question it, they were both laughing to the point of tears streaming down their cheeks, and Claire merely leaned forward to rest her head against his chest and he wrapped his arms protectively around her just as her arms linked around his neck. 

They stayed like that for a while, breathing in each other’s presence as the want for sex slowly drifted away. Out of respect — and the slight fear that  _ someone _ would walk up to the bakery and start banging on the door any minute — Owen pulled away for only a moment to put himself back together again, starting with his pants.

There was no hesitation as Claire slid off the counter and reached for his hand, a quiet smile on her lips. “I think we should go home, don't you?” 

{…}

The walk home from the subway station nearest their home typically was a short distance that could usually be done in a few minutes, but for the sake of the time spent together they both walked slowly and with ease. Never over the course of their relationship had Claire felt so at home with Owen, and while it may have been true that this test would only prove to make them stronger, she had her fair share of doubts, too. When they finally made it home only to see Elise standing outside on the front stoop, Claire started tugging on Owen’s hand with a firm sense in the pit of her stomach that  _ something _ was wrong, despite the feeling that her husband was still dragging his feet. 

“Elise, where are the kids?” Claire all but reached for the door before she felt her husband tug on her arm, and when she turned to scold him for being careless with their children, twinkling lights above them suddenly flickered to life. Suddenly she was six years old again, living in Chicago, sitting in the backseat of her mom’s cheaply fixed van that she used to get her from one job to another as they passed through neighborhood after neighborhood to see the Christmas lights strung on the houses. 

She stepped back to look up at the lights, laughing quietly to herself when she saw that some strands were slightly different than others. “This is why you were so eager for me to leave for work this morning?” She looked up to Owen with tears glimmering in her eyes; ones that threatened to push past the threshold and leave her a sobbing mess. 

Owen smirked, proud of the work he put into making this the best Christmas, even if it was a bit late with the decorating. “I scoured all of D.C. to find Christmas lights that matched, but most stores were down to the bare minimum, so this is what we have, I’m so—“

“—no, it’s perfect,” Claire interrupted, squeezing his hand gently as she nodded over to Elise. “Let’s go inside, I want to wake our kids up to share this with them.” 

Assuming the four children were in bed was her first mistake, and when Claire stepped foot into the foyer her eyes first went to the tree, the stockings hanging on the mantle and the garland that was hung atop the brick fireplace. In the midst of admiring the way her husband — and likely their children, too — had managed to transform their home into the Christmas-themed wonderland she’d dreamt of as a child, she felt Owen step up behind her and wrap his arms around her, resting both hands on her stomach with his chin pressed to the top of her head. 

“I said  _ a little  _ bit of decorating, Owen…” 

Will and Harper both slinked off the couch and padded over to their parents, the two Grady children dressed in matching red and green striped footed pajamas, courtesy of Ma Grady who, according to Elise, couldn’t pass up the thought of her grandchildren snuggled up, and cute at that. 

He chuckled quietly and pressed a kiss to her hair, a silent promise that he would make it up to her once they crossed the threshold into their bedroom. “Merry Christmas, Claire.” 


End file.
